When The Wolf Dances With The Lion
by mychemicalbooks
Summary: Sansa is miserable in King's Landing. Her father is dead, her sister is missing, and she is alone. Joffrey is new to the throne, and struggles with his power, and his inner demons. So when the two tire of being pawns in the game of thrones, they realize that they are each other's most unlikely allies, and perhaps only hope. Joffrey/Sansa romance later. Rated T for now *wink*
1. Chapter 1

**Hi guys! This is my first fanfic ever, ARGH I'M SO NERVOUS! I really hope you guys like it, and please know I have no idea what I'm doing, I've just had this in mind for a while, and thought it deserved a go. I know this chapter is pretty slow-paced and frankly not as entertaining as I'd like it to be, but bear with me, it leads to something bigger *evil grin* Enjoy!**

**DISCLAIMER: I'll do this once, but I'll make it clear. As much as I hate it, I do not own any characters from A Song of Ice and Fire, and the rad world of Westeros as well as it's denizens all belong to George R. R. Martin. I know, I know, I wish I owned them too, but they belong to Georgie. **

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><p>Sansa woke up with a start as a clap of thunder sounded in the distance. She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart, and lay back down, letting her eyes wonder. Her blue gaze settled above her, on the canopy of her bed. It was made out of a dark wood, the color of charcoal, naturally interweaved with strands of silver that shimmered dimly in the pale morning light. Her bed was made with rich blue sheets, the color of sapphires, and Sansa couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship of it all, the small little details embroidered in bronze thread, the colors that blended in so harmoniously with the dark wood.<p>

Another burst of thunder resonated, and rain began to fall, thrumming mercilessly at her window. With a sigh, she got up, knowing it was pointless to try and get more sleep. She walked to the window, and opened the curtains a bit more. They were the exact color of the blankets on her bed, blue with the little bronze threads, although they also had strands of silver in them, as if moonlight and the last rays of the setting sun were trapped together in a vast blue expanse.

The light filled her room, and she just stood there, taking it all in. She had only been in this room for a few weeks, yet it never ceased to amaze her. For the past months, she had been forced to occupy her chambers in the Tower of the Hand, and it had almost driven her mad. The place simply wasn't the same now that her father's head was on a spike, now that Arya was gone and everyone she knew dead or missing. So when the Queen came to tell her she'd be moving, she had been thrilled. Nothing had prepared her for the surprise she'd had when he first walked into her new chambers though.

The walls were made of grey stone, much unlike the red ones that made up most of the castle. Tapestries hung from them, depicting various scenes from Westerosi legends and tales, although Sansa wasn't familiar with them. The room had three colossal floor-to-ceiling windows that opened on a large balcony. They let it in the perfect amount of light to play with the colors of the room and make them surreal, not matter what time of day. There was a corner filled by an imposing wardrobe, although it was almost empty, much to Sansa's dismay. There was a big hearth made of carved black marble, representing graceful looking wolves and something that reminded Sansa strangely of the night sky. In front of the fireplace stood two cushioned armchairs, separated by a small table. The fire had practically died out, nothing but a few smoldering coals producing the occasional spark. She would have to tell her maid to light it again later.

One glance at the world outside told her it was still early, and she would have at least another hour or two before they came in to get her ready for the day. Sansa slipped on a robe and walked to the adjacent room. Of all the things that amazed her from her new quarters, this was probably the one that baffled her the most. There was a small solar next to her chambers, a small semi-circular room. The circular half of the room was nothing but windows and stone, and offered and impressive view over King's Landing. When there was good weather, the golden light of the sun would filter through the windowpanes and warm the room, wrapping it in fire. It was furnished in the same dark wood as her room. There was a large desk facing the windows, elaborately carved and neatly arranged. Sansa made sure her chambers were always impeccable; she couldn't bear the mess. With all the chaos around her, with all the people making her choices and telling her what to do, it felt good to have a small place that was uniquely hers to control.

The solar also had a rather impressive dining table set near the other door. There was eight carved chairs around the table, cushioned with royal blue velvet. A few silver chandeliers stood on the table, the only ornament on it. Sansa often ate her meals seated there, alone with her thoughts. The capital was teeming with people and life, yet it seemed there was not one soul who could sit with Sansa.

The rest of the walls were lined with dark shelves, although they were practically empty. It gave her a hollow feeling to see all this space meant to be filled with stories, yet devoid of the one thing that creates life out of nothing. Sansa had never been much of a reader, but her lack of company here, her fear of all the lords and ladies playing their stupid game of thrones had brought her to seek the solace of literature. At first she had found it hard to sit through a book; all her life she had listened to her stories, heard them sung by minstrels or told by Old Nan, yet she had gotten better at it. There were but a dozen books in the solar, and in the past weeks, she had read at least half of them, finishing each one faster, enjoying it more than the last.

But Sansa hadn't come to the solar in hopes of reading. With the storm outside, the room looked faded, the tapestries and cushions almost drained of their color. She sat at her desk, and ran her hands on the charcoal wood with silver strands before opening a drawer and pulling out a piece of parchment and a quill. Sansa sat straiter, lifted her chin a little, and gazed thoughtfully at the view before her. The rain was still falling, blurring everything beyond the windows into a thousand shades of gray and faded colors, reminding her painfully of the color her father's skin had been when Joffrey had taken her to admire his head. He had been so lifeless, and it had hurt her to see him like that, the great and powerful Eddard Stark reduced to nothing but a leeched, colorless face rotting on a spike. Sansa closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. Thinking of things that were no more would get her nowhere.

She opened the small pot of ink that lay on her desk, and dipped the quill in it, her movements calculated, graceful. She lifted the quill, the tip almost touching the blank paper. A drop of ink fell upon the surface with a small _plop_. With a deep breath, she touched the feather to the page, and began to write.

When she finished, she read the letter again, nodding satisfied at her flawless writing, at the slender letters inked across the parchment. Sansa then folded the paper into a neat square, and lit the candle in front of her. She warmed a blob of grey wax above the flame, and once it had melted, she carefully lowered her signet in it, the direwolf of House Stark. Sansa sealed her letter, waited for the wax to dry, admiring her handiwork. She smiled approvingly at the piece of paper.

Sansa stood up and winced. In her daze, she had forgotten the bruises she knew covered most of her right abdomen, and had probably blossomed overnight like gruesome flowers. They were a curtesy of ser Meryn and her beloved Joffrey after her most recent 'failure'. She cringed as she recalled being shoved to the ground and kicked, the tears streaming down her face. Throughout the whole incident, she had remained silent, knowing that her shrieking would have done nothing but irritate His Grace even more. Before she recalled the scene too vividly, she chased those thoughts from her head.

Sansa picked up the letter and the small candle. She strode out of her solar and walked to the hearth in her bedroom, her face showing nothing. She momentarily put the candle and neat letter on the ledge of the fireplace whilst she fished a couple of logs from the pile on the ground and threw them gently onto the dying fire. She then picked up her letter, and gazed at it, lost in thought. After a minute, she took the candle, and lit the paper.

The parchment caught fire immediately, and Sansa held it as it burnt, darkening and shriveling. When there wasn't much left to safely hold, she discarded it into the fireplace, making the logs roar as the flames licked them. Everyday she wrote a letter to her family. And every day she burnt it.

She smiled grimly at the burning parchment, a tear rolling down her rosy cheek.

Sansa had rekindled the fire. She didn't need anyone to do it for her.

"My lady, it's time for you to get ready," a voice said from behind her. "His Grace has requested your presence at court."

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><p><strong>So? What did you think? Feel free to give me your thoughts or ask any questions you might have! And please, if you have any constructive criticism, let me know, it really does help improve my writing. I'll try and update soon! Please review, follow, favorite and all that, it means a lot to me! <strong>

**–Estella**


	2. Chapter 2

**An update on day 2? Yes! I had a lot of time to write today, so here you go. I'm pretty sure this is complete crap, but meh. This chapter is 2-3 times as long, probably to make up for the fact I might not be able to update till Saturday. Thanks so much for all the positivity surrounding this, you guys are the best! Well, I'll leave you with Sansa then. Enjoy!**

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><p><em>Chapter 2<em>

Her maids worked deftly, their nimble fingers working quickly and efficiently. In less than an hour, she had bathed, donned a simple green gown embroidered in brown thread, and had her hair put up the way the southron ladies did. Even tied up by several braids and pins, her hair shone wildly, like fire in a brazier. Sansa smiled emptily at her reflection: she hated having to put on a face for _him_. How she had loved getting dressed up, trying on different dresses and doing her hair a thousand different ways; at least, that was until the only person she did it for was Joffrey. Sansa hated him with all her being, and the thought of being pretty to please him sickened her. But she had a role to play; so she lowered her eyes, and when she lifted them up again, she wore a faint smile on her lips, all anger gone from her cobalt eyes.

She left her room to find a knight of the Kingsguard standing at her door. She wasn't surprised, Joffrey had them escort her places all the time. Much to her relief, it was Ser Arys, one of the gentler ones. He always went soft on her whenever Joffrey had her 'punished', and for that she was grateful. Whenever he looked at her though, his eyes filled with pity, and she felt like smacking him. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, sister to the King in the North, not a girl to be sorry for. But no one in this red castle understood that. So she gave him a dazzling smile as he offered her his arm.

"You look lovely today Lady Sansa," he said casually, trying to make polite conversation. Despite herself, Sansa blushed.

"Thank you Ser, you are too kind," she replied, and then continued to make small talk. They chattered about some idle castle gossip, Sansa twisting the smile on her face like a weapon, making Ser Arys redden and stutter. _Men, _she thought; _give them a smile and they think they're kings._

After Joffrey had given her her father's head, Sansa's dream world has shattered, and when it did, she came to a simple conclusion: in this castle, you manipulated, or you became a pawn; it was your move. She'd let herself become a pawn, too scared, to lonely, to cowardly to do anything else. But when her grief had dulled a little, she had decided to experiment. At first, she had done little things like smiling at a guard or letting her gaze linger on someone just a bit too long. Sansa was surprised by how easy it was, and had then raised her game; whenever a knight came around, she smiled endearingly, batted her long eyelashes, honeyed her words and spoke in dulcet tones. It came so naturally to her, and it was an awful lot of fun. She hadn't dared try and get things out of people yet, but she supposed maybe one day– no, Joffrey would kill her if he knew she was plotting for her own interests.

They finally arrived in the Great Hall, where Sansa took her place amongst the other courtiers her hand laced in front of her, her back straight, her head poised, her face an impenetrable mask. She remembered how much she had adored court when she had first arrived here. She had spent hours admiring dresses and looking at young knights, giggling with other maidens about trivial matters. Now, she just stood there, still as stone, waiting for it all to be over so she could got to the godswood and pray, so she could get as far away from the Iron Throne as she could.

Eventually, the King arrived, and Sansa bowed her head along with the others. Fear clenched her gut, and her much too tight dress made it hard to breathe. _No, I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter to Eddard Stark and sister to the King in the North. I will not be afraid. I will not. I will not, _she tried to convince herself meekly, only to see her weak words dissolve in her mind like smoke.

No matter what, she felt like she's always be _his_ pawn.

And she hated it.

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><p>Joffrey strode into the throne room followed by two of his Kingsguard. He was bored,, and hoped that court would prove more… <em>entertaining.<em> All morning he had heard his mother nag him about stupid state affairs and public opinion, and although he knew they were crucial to his reign, he couldn't afford to be bothered with them yet. As he walked to the throne, a smug grin on his angelic face, he noticed Sansa standing amongst the others. Somehow, she managed to stand out, to shine above the other courtiers, despite her unflattering gown and simple jewelry. She might be stupid and utterly useless, but he couldn't deny she was beautiful. With her striking blue eyes, her smooth, pale skin, her high cheekbones that gave he such a surreal face, with her long, auburn curls that shone like fire and her graceful silhouette, perfectly curved, perfectly defined, he doubted anyone could. A shame she wore such a simple dress.

He let his green eyes wonder around the room, taking in every detail he could. He noticed the Small Council at their seats; Varys with his small, pampered figure and lavender robes; Littlefinger, his sly face relaxed and his shrewd black eyes, a hand absently stroking his short beard; Lord Janos Slynt, a man he knew little of and who, quite frankly, disgusted Joffrey; Grand Maester Pycelle, looking as old and shriveled as ever, his beard looking more like some old wooly blanket than anything else; and his mother, in her Lannister red dress, smiling faintly at him. They made such a strange group, and Joffrey knew that most of them were anything but trustworthy, his mother included. Of course, they couldn't know he knew _that_.

He climber the steps to the Iron throne and sat down, almost nonchalantly. He had never understood what it was that people feared of the throne, or how the Mad King had ever managed to cut himself on it. Perhaps he simply didn't have the makings of a king. Perhaps the dementia made him writhe on the tip of a melted sword. It didn't matter.

Joffrey considered the audience before him, his crown nestled comfortably on his golden locks. He nodded to Varys, "We may begin."

"Of course,Your Grace," he began in that soft voice of his. It seemed to be slithering under his doublet, trying to learn his secrets. He wasn't the master of whispers for nothing. "First of all, we have a most noble rider from the Night's Watch, with a request for the crown."

A burly man, dressed in black from head to heel, stepped forward and knelt. His hair was filthy, and his raven cloak travel-stained.

"Your Grace, we have emm…" he said, as if he were rehearsing some speech. "A dire need of more men at the Wall. This emm… honorable order is what protects the realm from the oth– I mean the dangers that lie beyond." Joffrey sat and listened patiently, trying hard not to laugh every time the man stuttered or hesitated. At last, he finished his 'speech'.

"You can have your pick of the dungeons," Joffrey said simply.

"Bu-b-but my lord" the burly man tried to say, his mouth quivering.

"_Your Grace. _Mind your tongue," he replied dangerously. He was king, and he would be treated as such, even by men of the Night's Watch. "I am the king of Westeros, not some petty lord."

The burly man was shaking, and sweat was beading on his forehead. "Sorry, emm… Your Grace. It's just that it might not be enough. We need g-good, strong lads up there."

Joffrey scoffed. "Ser, I'm fighting a war. I have no men to spare. And I'm sure that your _ancient_ and _honorable_ order can handle a few wildling women with spears." Most of the courtiers laughed, and Joffrey couldn't help but smile. He noticed a timid smile playing on Sansa's lips as well, but he quickly returned his attention to the man. "Littlefinger, see that this man is given a royal warrant giving him permission to have his pick from the dungeons of every lord, big and small, in the realm. Will that be sufficient?"

The burly man nodded and thanked Joffrey awkwardly.

A few more trivial queries were made, to which the Small Council tended quickly. Joffrey sighed. So much for entertainment.

A small lord came up, but Joffrey hardly paid him any attention. He was lost in thought. He heard the Small Council muttering and his mother give him some answer. The lord protested and Queen Cersei told him it was all they could do. The small lords were always unsatisfied, so Joffrey thought nothing of it, until the lord screamed some insults and spat in front of the throne.

The whole room stood still. All the whispering had died out. All eyes were either on the man or on Joffrey.

Joffrey looked at the spit, and then slowly lifted his eyes until they stared straight at the man. The lord must have realized his error, for he immediately began blubbering apologies and staring at his feet, but his voice was lost in the immensity of the room, in the depth of the silence. Joffrey felt barely contained anger surge through him, coursing through his veins like wildfire. How dare he spit at him? How dare he cry out profanities to his king? Ned Stark would have probably let him go, but if Joffrey knew one thing, it was that he was nothing like him. For one, his head wasn't on a spike. But the little lord's might be.

"What would you prefer?" Joffrey said, enunciating every word carefully, letting the full weight of his ire settle in each syllable. "A slit throat? A dagger to the heart? Perhaps a rope around your worthless neck?

"Y-y-your Gra-ace?"

"You heard me, what will it be then?"

The lord gulped, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Joffrey grew impatient.

"Ser Ilyn, if you would please slit his throat. I'm sure the Small Council is more than able of taking care of the remaining matters," he said as he took off his crown and handed it to Ser Meryn. He got up and began descending the steps to the throne. Ser Ilyn had seized the little lord who was trashing and begging for his life, wailing almost. As Joffrey reached the last step, Ser Ilyn slashed and the lord grew silent. A contented expression appeared on the young king's face. He passed the body as one passes a pillar, without noticing it. "Oh and someone clean the blood, I'd hate to stain the marble," he called out, walking towards Sansa. She looked a little pale.

No one defied him. He wouldn't stand for it.

He was _the_ King.

And everyone in the room had better remember that.

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><p>Sansa gasped as a spray of blood erupted from the man's throat and fell almost artfully to the ground.<p>

It was strange how the worst horrors always held some beauty. Joffrey was the perfect example. He had strode into the throne room wearing a splendid black and burgundy doublet, made of rich fabric from one of the Free Cities no doubt. His golden, antlered crown rested at the top of his head, sitting there as he had been born with it. A sword rested at his hip, one that Sansa had never seen before.

He had walked in looking every bit a king, his golden face wearing a smug grin.

And he had killed with the same beautiful look on his face.

Joffrey descended from the throne, and called out something to the Small Council. Sansa couldn't hear him. To her, the blood looked to much like her father's on the day he had been _murdered_ by Ser Ilyn. She felt sick. Why in the name of the gods did she have to wear such a tight dress? It was hard to breathe, her corset caging her. Joffrey had probably planned to kill the man, and had made her come to witness it all, delighting in her anguish. She had noticed his gaze on her a few times during the audience, and it wouldn't be unlike him. Hate gripped at her heart, and right then, she could have probably killed her betrothed.

The feeling was short lived. She saw Joffrey striding towards her with two Kingsguard in tow. Fear began knotting her insides again, and it took all her self control to breathe normally. _In and out. In and out. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, sister to the King in the North, a princess in my own right. I will not be afraid. In and out. I will not be afraid. In and out. _She repeated the words like a mantra, over and over again. By the time Joffrey arrived in front of her, she wore a cool, composed expression and her breathing was normal. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell and she would not be anything but calm, graceful, and ladylike. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her otherwise.

She gave Joffrey a small curtsey and said in a sweet voice "Your Grace."

He gave her a cold smile, and offered her his right arm. "Sansa. Walk with me."

Ignoring the small voice inside her head shouting at her not too, she took his arm, and followed him out of the Great Hall as he led her into the gardens. Once outside, he slowed his pace, and they walked in an uncomfortable silence for a couple of minutes, the two white knights following at a safe distance. Finally, Sansa decided to break the silence.

"Is that a new sword, Your Grace?" She asked innocently. His face lit up with what seemed like a genuine smile.

"Indeed. The other one was too simple, too small, a toy more than a weapon," he said. He stopped, and pulled his sword out of it's scabbard holding it up for Sansa to admire. "It's Valyrian steel, and you see the hilt?" he continued, pointing at it. It was jet black onyx, encrusted with some precious yellow gem. "It was added specially for me, carved in the likelihood of a stag. The gems are Dragon's Eyes, or at least that's what they're called. Very rare." Sansa was a little surprised at his little speech. She had expected him to taunt her about the dead man. Joffrey looked at the ripples in the metal and said, "This is a sword fit for a king Sansa. Maybe I'll kill your brother with it. Perhaps I won't have the honor. You do need honor to kill Stark men don't you?"

There it was. Sansa willed herself to stay calm, to keep the mask from shattering. It would not do to loose her temper now. "If Your Grace thinks so, then it must be true." Joffrey sheathed his sword and continued walking. Sansa shuddered as she wrapped her arm around his. She hated touching him. She _hated_ him.

"Why a stag, why Dragon's Eyes? If I may ask, Your Grace," she corrected hastily.

Joffrey stared at the gardens, where the afternoon sun was playing wonders on the colors of the plants, still wet from the morning's rain.

"I don't think it's right for me to have a Lannister sword. It's what my mother would want, but I am a Baratheon," he said that word difficultly, and Sansa wondered why. "I must wear my House's sigil. As for the Dragon's Eyes, I don't want to forget the past. Targaryens ruled this realm for centuries before me, and I will not let their mistakes repeat themselves and be my downfall. So I wear their sigil too, in hopes of being better than the Mad King."

Sansa nodded. She was surprised he was capable of such thought. Then again, he was dying to skewer her brother with that sword. She would have liked for some Targaryen to be his bane. Or anyone really, as long as she could leave this wretched place.

"What _are_ you wearing Sansa?" Joffrey looked at her green dress a little oddly.

She looked down at it herself, knowing it was too tight, knowing it was childish and not cut accordingly to her body. "Just a dress, Your Grace," she said meekly.

"Are all your dresses like that?"

"I'm afraid so. These are the dresses I brought from Winterfell"

His gaze looked her up and down critically. "I'll send someone to make you new ones. I can't have my lady parading in such a childish attire. Have as many a you like, the least you could do is look nice."

And with that, he left.

Sansa stood there, stunned, angry, puzzled, for a long time. Then, she made her way to the godswood. There, she would have come peace, and she could let go of her mask. The image of the dying lord was still fresh on her mind, and Joffrey had angered her beyond measure.

She couldn't keep the facade all day; not even the bravest of ladies could.

So she knelt in front of the heart tree, and let her tears flow.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading! Please review, follow, favorite and all, it means <em>a lot<em> to me. I'll try and update soon. If you have any questions, or suggestions, PM me or just ask me on tumblr (mychemicalbooks)! **

**Hope you guys liked it! **

**–Estella xx**


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, here it is! Sorry for taking so long to update. Thanks a bunch for all the positive reviews, you guys are absolutely lovely! I would just like to say three things before we get on with the story:**

**1) I know the godswood is different from the one in the books, but I had to change things up for story purposes. **

**2) I have never heard of a ship name for Joffrey and Sansa, and we might be needing one soon... Suggestions? PM me or let me know on tumblr (mychemicalbooks)**

**3) If you're the type who likes to listen to music whilst reading, the album _Sempiternal_ by Bring Me The Horizon fueled this chapter, as well as _Collide With The Sky_ by Pierce The Veil, but much less than BMTH. Also_ Honey, This Mirror Isn't Big Enough For The Two Of Us _by My Chemical Romance is a good one for this chap!**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><em><span>Chapter 3<span>_

Joffrey walked leisurely back to his chambers, savoring the confusion he had caused Sansa. Everyone here was so dull, so obsessed with getting richer, obtaining his favor, honey-coating everything to look good to their King, and Joffrey was quite simply bored with them. Sansa on the other side… She was afraid, subdued, and so fun to toy with. A shame she didn't have more spirit. He probably shouldn't have scared her _that_ much in the beginning, he beat it out of her on day one. Such a stupid move on his part.

As he made his way through the castle, servants bowed to him, and a few lords and ladies cried out some flatteries, much to his amusement. They were all so foolish. The Red Keep looked lovely in the afternoon sun: golden beams of light filtered in through the windows, making the stone glow. The gardens outside were vibrant, the sun reflecting off the water left from the morning's storm. The air was fragrant with the smell of earth after the rain, and the subtler tones of flowers. _Such a beautiful place, _he thought with a small smile_, and all mine_,. He might have been awfully immoral to half the castle, but he knew how to appreciate beauty.

And how to destroy it too.

As he entered is solar, he found his mother waiting for him, a wineglass in hand. He sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. _Not again, _he whined, visibly annoyed.

"Ah, Joffrey," she said, a smile that didn't reach her eyes planted on her features. "Where have you been?"

"It's none of your business where I've been, _mother,_" he spat out, irritated. He wanted her out of here. She had nothing to do prying about his life. He was king after all.

She gave him a calculating glance before sitting down. "So be it. I hope you do realize how foolish it was of you to kill the man. You'll loose some support from the nobility, support much needed with a king at every corner of this kingdom."

Anger ripped at Joffrey's insides. Before he knew it, his fist flew against the table, making a loud noise that made Cersei flinch. "There is only one king, and it's _me_. Watch your tongue mother. The nobles will support me, or I will have their heads. And next time you dare say something like that, maybe I'll have yours too."

The Queen paled, but her face melted into a stoney mask before Joffrey could be sure he had startled her. Why was he so angry? He didn't know. He didn't want to be. But right now he felt like a lion who's pray had been stolen. He was furious, and he was scared. But his mother couldn't know that, or else she would think him weak, and the Small Council would make _something _happen. And not the good kind.

"Sit down Joffrey," she asked simply, pointing at the empty spot besides her. Reluctantly, he walked over and sat down next to her. "You are the only king, and no one here, especially not me, would deny that. But many outside these walls would. And it's them you must conquer. Today, you made them fear you. That's good, my love. Tomorrow, make them adore you. Fear alone is a powerful thing, but mingled with love, with awe, it is unstoppable. Remember that, my precious boy," she said in a quiet voice, placing a hand on his cheek. He lowered his eyes, and took a deep breath. "You will be a great ruler someday. Just like your father," Joffrey shuddered at the mention of his father. Some things were better left unspoken. "Greater than Aegon the Conquerer, even. But first," she continued, lowering her voice to a whisper, a fierce glare appearing in her eyes. "You must act like a king."

Joffrey stared into the green eyes so like his own, glaring right back at his mother. Finally, she kissed his cheek and got up, putting down her wine goblet on the table. "Think on what you've done. And let this be the last time I have to remind you who you are, Joffrey." She left in a flourish of skirts and golden hair, leaving the king alone with his thoughts.

He realized his hand was shaking, and wanted to smash something to the ground, to hurt someone. Maybe he'd go get Sansa… No. That wouldn't do. His mother was right, he had to behave like a king.

He stared up defiantly, smoothing the scowl on his face, calming his breathing and steadying his hand. Oh, he would be king. It was time they saw him for who he was, the true King of Westeros, not a spoilt, angry boy.

There was simply some games he needed to play first.

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><p>At first, Sansa had done nothing but cry, an arm wrapped around the pale trunk of the weirwood. She held it like it was the only thing keeping her from flying away with the storm. Her tears puddled around her, and she felt herself drowning in her fear, in pain, in anguish. She was in the deepest of the seven hells. She couldn't think without being afraid of getting <em>punished<em> for it. Even when she tried to be brave and see how far she could go, she never pushed much, and was paranoid for days afterwards. What if they knew what she had tried? Joffrey would surely have her head.

As she cried, something began stirring inside of her, like a wolf clawing at her insides, wanting to be let free, wanting to howl at the moon and hunt. Something wild and primitive. Something she didn't know hid inside her, an instinct so old, so deep, it took her by surprise. She stopped sobbing. She took a breath and looked around her. She gazed at the green of the trees around her, deep and sorrowful, a solemn, wicked smile spreading on her doll-like face. She looked at the weirwood, it's pale branches extended towards the sky like arms tipped with bloody fingers. She peered at the face carved into the trunk. It was wild, angry, sad, and raw. It starred at her as if it wanted to kill her, making her grin even more. That's when she did something she never thought she would do.

She picked a branch up and hit the nearest pine.

Bark flew everywhere and she hit it again and again, grunting loudly, not caring for her dress, or her hair. She pictured Joffrey, the Queen, Ser Meryn, the Hound, Ser Ilyn. She pictured all of those who had hurt her, who had stood by as _he_ had harmed her. And she hit like her life depended on it.

She was feral, unstoppable, and for a minute she forgot about it all. She just lashed at the pine, branch in hand, a fierce glare in her cobalt eyes. The crazed smile was still on her mouth. Sansa felt as if she could scare an entire army away with nothing more than a look.

For the first time in months, she felt like a Stark.

After a minute, the tears returned, but she didn't care. All her thoughts, were on the tree, on bringing it down, on making it pay. The tree was her enemy, and she would defeat it, reduce it to nothing. Sansa wanted to yell at someone to come at her, to try and fight her. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and death would be the only person to win against her.

She wielded the branch like a sword, remembering Robb and Jon in the courtyard in Winterfell. She remembered their stance, the way they held the sword like an extension of their arms. She willed herself to do the same, and kept smacking the pine, denting it a little more with every hit. Her rage traveled through her arm, through the branch, through the tree until the entire godswood felt her ire.

Eventually, the branch broke. Sansa hurled the remaining piece at the pine, one last blow for one last wound.

She stood there, breathing heavily, her hair falling out of its elaborate hairdo, the same lupin expression on her face. Tears still ran down her cheeks, and she felt the beast inside her retreat, disappearing once more. She didn't want it too.

As it left, her fear returned. She looked at herself, disbelieving, surprise slowly erasing the wicked expression that had taken control of her face only moments before. She raised a hand to her mouth and and staggered towards the weirwood again, collapsing against it. A ragged sob shook her. No, she couldn't be scared again, she simply couldn't. She didn't want to be, she didn't want to feel like anything else than a wolf.

She almost wailed as she felt fear's cold hands grip her heart and squeeze gently. She gasped, wanting to feel that surge of power that had made her forget it all again. Could the gods truly be so cruel as to strip her of the one thing that had given her some comfort? Perhaps they were. That's why they were gods.

Sansa cried, and this time not because Joffrey had upset her, or because she had seen a man die, but for her loss. She had risen from her misery and become a wolf, a true Stark, only to be show down by an arrow of fear.

She knelt, and she grieved for the wings she had lost, the wings that would have carried her out of her misery.

Finally, she pulled the pins out of her messy hair, and pulled it into a loose but elegant braid, artfully placing them back throughout her auburn locks. She stood and fixed her dress, brushing the dirt off it, smoothing the creases and removing the little pieces of bark that had embedded themselves in the fabric. She wiped her eyes, and closed them for a minute. When they opened again, they looked normal, as if nothing had happened in the godswood but some prayers.

Before she left, she said one for the poor man Joffrey had murdered this morning.

She didn't even know his name.

Then she walked away from the deranged face of the weirwood, leaving an unspoken secret between her and the heart tree.

* * *

><p>Joffrey was still a angry, and he felt the powerful emotion threatening to crush him. He pushed it down and made his way out of the solar, letting his feet carry him away. Before he knew it, Joffrey stood in front of the godswood. He never went there– he always felt like an outside, and the weirwood terrified him. The woods were alien to him, unwelcoming, as if the trees hated him and wanted him gone. Normally, he would have kept walking, preferring the gardens or the training yard.<p>

He walked in anyways, closing the wooden door that separated the wood from the rest of the world behind him.

A shiver ran down his back as soon as he did it.

He gazed around him, trying to see what it was about these trees that was so eerie. All around him stood soldier pines, ironwoods, sentinels, ashes, oaks and hawthorns. He wondered why these northern trees were here. They seemed to close in around him, tall and dark, their leaves a deep green. The sound that usually surrounded the castle was gone, and there was nothing but a chilling silence. He felt as if the trees were trying to intimidate him. He scoffed silently. He wouldn't be afraid of some bloody trees. He was the King of Westeros, not a child.

His head perked as he heard a sob. Then another. They sounded familiar to him, but he couldn't quite match the voice to its owner. If there was one thing his father had done right, it was teach him how to hunt, how to move without noise throughout the woods. So quiet as a shadow, he made his way towards the sound.

The sobbing stopped.

Then he saw _her_.

In front of the weirwood, there stood Sansa. She had her back to him, but he could tell it was her. She looked as neat and innocent as she usually did, and was probably praying to those other gods she worshipped. He was about to step out of the shadows and taunt her a bit, maybe call Ser Meryn and take his anger out on her, when she did the strangest thing; she bent down and picked a branch up. It had fallen from the weirwood and glowed in her hand. She turned around, facing a pine, and his heart stopped when his eyes fell on her face.

He shuddered.

Where there usually was a calm, pretty face with a shy gaze and a small smile, there was a she-wolf. Her eyes were ablaze, a blue so bright he almost stared away. Her mouth was set in a wicked grin, as if she could have thrust a knife in his gut as she kissed him. Her high cheekbones looked incredibly pronounced, and her whole face was a play of shadows, making her look feral. Tears still ran down her face, but they became her. Everything about her was so subdued; her dress was perfectly straight, her fiery hair still in place, but one look at her face was enough to chill him, to let him know she was everything but a toy.

Suddenly, she jumped and smashed the branch against the pine, so hard he wondered how the impact hadn't jarred her. Sansa thrust the branch again, with a grunt this time. Over and over, she hit the tree with the branch, awkwardly at first, but then with an ensnaring grace, as if she were wielding a sword. Bark flew everywhere, but she paid it no heed; all she did was deliver blow after blow, laughing a little, and wickedly so.

How he had ever managed to hurt her, he didn't know. Sansa Stark looked unstoppable, unyielding, fierce, nothing but a true lady of Winterfell. In her he saw the direwolf that had attacked him, beautifully lethal. He realized then that maybe there was more to her than he thought. _No, she's but a stupid girl, raised to do nothing but smile courteously and bat her eyelashes, _he thought bitterly. Joffrey didn't believe himself half as much as he would have liked to.

The golden king knew he should leave, or make her pay for behaving in such an unladylike manner, but he couldn't move. Part of him was afraid of the wolf-girl in the clearing, dancing dangerously with a branch in hand, bringing the pine down with so much hatred, with so much power he was surprised it was still standing. Part of him was transfixed by how beautiful she was; the way her whole body arched as she trust the branch, graceful as water; her long, auburn hair flying everywhere, like wild flames following a powerful sorceress. The determination, the nerve in her features, they way her blue eyes shone like gems, so intense they could have reduced him to dust. Her bone structure, so perfectly defined, gave her the airs of a goddess, a queen amongst mortals, surreal and beyond his reach. Her svelte, curved figure contorted smoothly, lashing out at the pine relentlessly, as if she were destroying an enemy.

It then hit him she was probably picturing his face on the trunk.

Regardless, he stayed and gazed at the wolf danced with her branch and a pine.

After what seemed like an eternity, a loud snap was heard as the branch broke. This seemed to shake Sansa out of her trance, and Joffrey watched as bewilderment replaced the feral expression that had possessed Sansa's features for so long. Her blue eyes flicked towards herself nervously, and she gasped as if her heart had been ripped from her throat. She shook her head slowly, disbelieving, before raising a hand to her mouth and tripping towards the heart tree, melting in front of it. A raw, ragged sob made her thin frame tremble.

Grief distorted her face, and she looked so lost that despite himself, Joffrey wanted nothing more than to run towards her and make sure she was alright.

He stayed in the shadows.

Even as she cried, she looked otherworldly. He wished he could draw her, kneeling in the folds of her skirts, a hand on her heart and the other on her mouth, he hair a wild halo around her lovely face, tears tracing a clear path down her cheeks. He shook his head a little, sadly; no one could know he sketched, it was most unbecoming for a king. It made him look weak, yet he wanted nothing more than to etch this moment in paper, and show it to her.

Sansa rose from the ground, and wiped her face. He saw her remove the pins form her fiery locks one by one, and then bring the curls together in a loose yet intricate style. She carefully put the pins back in her hair, and then began brushing the dirt of her dress, making herself look as if nothing had happened.

Joffrey felt utterly stupid. He couldn't hide his rage from his mother, yet she could contain herself until she was alone, and then erase all trace of emotion from her face in a few gestures. She was more a king than he was.

Thankfully, she didn't see him as she left, after having muttered something to the heart tree. He didn't know how long he stayed in the godswood, but it was long before he emerged through the wooden door again.

Maybe Sansa Stark wasn't who he had made her out to be. Joffrey ignored who she truly was– he simply knew he would never take her so lightly again. She was a worthy opponent if challenged, and he did not want to be in the place of that tree.

* * *

><p>Sansa returned to her chambers and had her maids draw a bath for her. They didn't notice her slightly disheveled appearance, and if they did, they made no mention of it. She scrubbed all the dirt off herself, and washed the stray pieces of bark from her hair. She tried to picture all of her fear going off her skin with the water, but she simply couldn't do it. She doubted she'd ever feel what she had in the woods again.<p>

After a meager supper by herself, she sat on the divan in front of the windows in her solar. She could see the stars perfectly through them, and they took her breath away. In the end, she opened the last book on the shelves, they only one she hadn't read yet. Sansa barely read half a page before he eyes felt heavy and she began to yawn. Her earlier stunt had drained her far more than she realized. Before she knew it, she had drifted off, curled up on herself in front of silvery constellations.

* * *

><p><em>Sansa stood in the godswood again, facing the heart tree.<em>

_She was barefoot, and her hair cascaded freely down her back, a waterfall of auburn curls reaching her waist. She wore a simple white dress that left her arms and most of her back bare. It was tied at the waist by a pale silver belt that shimmered in the moonlight. A light breeze ruffled the trees, and Sansa shivered. _

_With a start, she realized she stood in the godswood at Winterfell. The hot pool was to her right, still as ever. The sky shone brightly above her, the stars glittering like thousands of little gems, a few of them strange colors such as red, blue, green, purple, and even orange. It was breathtaking. _

_Sansa gazed at the weirwood. It was so much bigger than the one in King's Landing, and more beautiful too. It's huge red leaves were bright in the dim light, crimson hands reaching for the heavens. The face in the trunk was all melancholy and tears of blood. Sansa felt the power of this place like never before. She drew strength from the tree, knowing it was the source of all she was._

_She heard a noise behind her, to see a wolf approach her. She should have run away, been afraid, but she was a Stark, and wolves were her closest friends. This was unmistakably a direwolf– it was huge, with grey fur like smoke, and glowing yellow eyes that reminded Sansa of of molten gold. It was so tall it reached her shoulder, and grace radiated off the creature. A wave of recognition went through Sansa. _

_"Lady!" she cried happily, throwing herself around the wolf's thick neck and wrapping her hands in its soft fur. Lady nudged at her neck and muzzled at her, whining excitedly. Sansa remained in the embrace for an infinity of time; she had longed for the direwolf so much, she wasn't going to let go just yet. _

_At last, she pulled back, and smiled at Lady, her features lighting up. "Oh, Lady. I've missed you so much. I wish you could still be with me." Lady whined and nudged at her shoulder. Sansa saw she was trying to give her something._

_"What is it girl? Here, give it to me," she murmured. _

_Lady dropped a piece of fabric in her hand. It was absolutely lovely, richly made, with fine detail embroidered as to make the it shimmer. Inside was something hard. Sansa unwrapped it to see a dagger covered in blood. She looked up at Lady, puzzled. "Why would you give me this?"_

_"You'll understand soon enough, sister." Sansa's eyes widened as she heard the voice from behind her. _It can't be, no,_ she thought. Her blood froze in her veins, and she turned around to see the impossible. Sitting beneath the weirwood was her little brother, Bran, Summer at his heels. With a start, Sansa saw that the face in the tree was no longer the melancholy carving she was accustomed too, but her father's harsh yet good-natured features. _

_"There's no need to be afraid Sansa, you're the blood of the North. No one can hurt you," said another voice, to her left this time. Sansa pivoted on her feet to find Arya standing in the woods. She also wore a white dress similar to hers, and a silver circlet rested in her long dark hair– for once, it wasn't messy, but neatly brushed into soft curls, much to Sansa's surprise. A bow was strapped to her back and a thin sword was in her hand, and Nymeria stood next to her. _

_"SANTHAAAA," cried a small voice, and she felt Rickon tackle her legs and hug them. His own wolf stood in the background, watching over the little Stark. She giggled, remembering he couldn't pronounce her name properly. He had never been able to._

_Behind her, she heard Robb's deeper voice. He looked splendid, a simple crown nestled in his auburn hair. He had grown a short red beard, and came with Catelyn at his arm. "You've done well little sister. Your strength is admirable. Don't worry, I'll kill them all soon enough. Hold on 'till then, yes?" She nodded, wanting to scream at him she was nothing but a coward, but unable to. _

_"What's this though?" she asked her family pointing at the fabric, conflicting emotions battling inside her; joy, sorrow, grief, longing, ecstasy, mingling together in a great storm. _

_She blinked the tears that were falling from her eyes, and gasped at what she saw when her vision cleared again. They still stood before her, but they were corpses, their skeletons showing through the rotten flesh, their white clothes stained in blood. She noticed there were also the corpses of people from the Red Keep on the ground, all brutally murdered. Sansa stared in horror at her mother and Robb, at Bran and Rickon, and even at Jon, who had silently made his appearance, a corpse in torn black attire. She wanted nothing more than to retch._

_"We all need our Needles, don't we? This is yours, Sansa, don't you see? Use it well, it can take you far if you wield it properly," Arya said simply as she impaled Joffrey on her sword, blood flowering on his tunic like a crimson rose. Her sister then climbed on top of her direwolf, and rode off._

_Not knowing why, Sansa then thrust the dagger through her heart, falling to the ground in a sigh. _

* * *

><p>Sansa opened her eyes, shivering violently. A hand flew to her heart, and seeing there was nothing there, no bloody wound, she sighed in relief and laughed emptily, closing her eyes again.<p>

She fell back against the divan, and looked outside the window. It was already morning, and golden sun rays came in, making her skin glow. She got up, and something clattered to the ground.

Sansa bent down to picked it up, and much to her surprise, she found the piece of gray fabric from her dream, with the dagger wrapped in it. The hilt was a small, white wolf with blue eyes, and the blade was Valyrian steel. She stared at it perplexed. Maybe the old gods had decided to answer her prayers.

Someone knocked on the door of the solar, and Sansa turned, seeing her maid in the entrance with some breakfast. Sansa sat at the table and hungrily attacked the food.

"Oh and m'lady, His Grace has asked me to tell you that the seamstress will be here today," she said in a small voice. Sansa raised an eyebrow questioningly. "For the new dresses m'lady."

The piece of bacon Sansa was about to pop in her mouth fell back on her plate as she understood. _Oh, that is so clever, _she thought, a mischievous grin spreading on her face. _Thank you sister. _

"Ah yes, thank you," she told the maid before dismissing her.

Perhaps the wolf inside her would stir again. She just had to hold out till Robb came and killed them all. She would conquer her fears, and keep them at bay long enough for her brother to come. She could do it; it would be a hard, terrifying road to tread, but she was confident in her abilities now.

_I have my own weapons after all, _she mused as she glanced at the piece of fabric she had left on her desk.

* * *

><p><strong>Sooooo? I hope this turned out alright, I sure had fun writing it! Let me know what you thought, I'm really curious as to whether or not I should continue down this path. As usual, Review, Follow, Favorite, it means a ton! I'll try to update soon, but ya know, with school and all *dramatic sigh*<strong>

**Hope you liked it!**

**–Estella xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**I AM SO SORRY FOR TAKING THIS FREAKING LONG TO UPDATE! I feel so bad! School has just been crazy, and I had a little writer's block. Anyways, hope oyu enjoy this one!**

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><p><span><em>Chapter 4<em>

Sleep refused to come to Joffrey, so he just lay there, an arm behind his head and the other sprawled carelessly over his torso. It must have been very late, but he found that he couldn't ease himself into the river of dreams. His mind was agitated, a whirlwind of emotion, of confusion, of thought. The worse part? He knew exactly what –or who–was keeping him awake.

He glared at the ceiling some more, as if getting angry at it would make his troubled mind desert him and give him some peace. Sadly, only petty nobles shied away before his stare, and even then, only the senseless ones feared Joffrey properly. Joffrey hated that he knew this, but despite all the lies he told himself, he knew it was no one's fault but his own. What he found even more deranging was that he couldn't care less. Everyone was going to counteract his every move, his _loyal _advisors wanted nothing more than to take his place, he had no doubts even his mother had her own priorities. Might as well make this kingdom a mess, so that whoever dared rule in his stead would trudge through the deepest of the seven hells. It was amusing even, watching the Small Council's elaborate plans fall to pieces at a simple flick of his hand.

He didn't really want to ponder on the realm's messy politics, but neither did he want to reflect on the face that was keeping him awake, the face that flickered before his eyes every time he blinked. It was inked in his mind, and he doubted it would ever leave him.

After leaving the godswood, he had been distraught, his mind wondering seemingly of its own accord. He had shut himself in his chambers, and had done nothing but pace, a restless lion stuck in his gilded cage. Joffrey had no idea what was wrong with him. He was the King of Westeros, he didn't need to spend hours numb and alone, his wit abandoning him. The golden boy felt like a ghost, nothing but a faint impression of who he'd been that morning.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the blazing blue glare, eyes that could have killed any man with nothing but a glance. He pictured the feral face, the high cheekbones drawing gaunt shadows on her pale face, making her look more beautiful than ever. He had never seen such a look on someone's face, not even when he saw two men fighting for their lives. What he had witnessed today was raw beyond imagining, a rare spectacle he had been privileged enough to attend. He had seen a wolf in true form, graceful, lithe, entrancing, and ultimately deadly.

Before he knew it, his feet carried him to his solar. It was dimly lit by the embers of the dying flames, but Joffrey didn't care. His hand were trembling in anticipation.

Of what, he wasn't sure yet.

It was as if a power beyond his reach were guiding him, gently pushing his fingers to reach for the key he kept hidden in the folds of a book, whispering at him to open the third drawer of the imposing mahogany desk, carefully pulling out the small, gilded box, moving his hand to reach for the block of parchment paper he kept preciously in the drawer…

He gasped as he felt the paper. It had been years since Joffrey had touched it, had run his hands over the raspy surface of the material. He sat down, and opened the box. Inside rested a few coals from the Summer Isles, dark pieces of wood used for sketching by the people over the Narrow Sea. The King held one up gingerly, as if testing it, balancing the small tool like a sword. When he was satisfied with how it felt in his hand, he gently eased it onto the paper. Once the coal came in contact with the faded parchment, Joffrey was unstoppable.

Lines poured out of him, graciously coming together to form a portrait. He traced, smeared, considered, shadowed his work, expertly bringing the object of his eye to life. How long it took him before he drew the last line, he didn't know, but when he was done, he was breathing hard, surprised at what he had created.

There was a reason he didn't sketch anymore; it was to obvious, too easy to find, to personal. He stared in horror at the piece of art, and despite himself, pulled out a small little flask of blue paint, and with his little finger, dabbed two dots of cobalt where eyes should have been.

"What in the name seven?"

Gazing up at him with a blue glare, kneeling before the weirwood with a grieved look on her face was a girl, a girl he knew had auburn hair and pale skin, rosy cheeks and high cheekbones, a girl who wore childish dresses and paled whenever she saw him.

He felt like smacking himself. He was to fuck her, maybe marry her one day, nothing more. She was a pawn, nothing but a stupid girl made to indulge is whims, a toy he could play with as he pleased, with no one to tell him otherwise. This wolf girl would never be anything else, she would simply exist at his mercy, leading her pathetic little life until he said otherwise. She wasn't allowed to wonder his dreams. That she dared take control of him, reduce him to nothing but an empty shell crushed by that piercing gaze infuriated him. He wanted nothing more than to go to her bedroom and give her hell.

Oh, how good that would feel.

Despite his anger, the rage that was possessing him like some mad demon, he quickly put the utensils away, and he gently put the sketch on top of them. He locked the drawer, hid the key, and went back to his bed. He found that when he lay down again, his mind had calmed down considerably. He was still furious, but his thoughts were no longer pounding at his skull, demanding to be heard. Instead, they were gently lulling him to sleep.

* * *

><p>Joffrey was in a foul mood when he got out of bed, and remained so for the next hour. He got in a fight with his mother over breakfast, made Myrcella and Tommen cry, got angry with a servant, and glared at every soul he happened to run into. It was not a pleasant sight, and he knew it.<p>

He relished in it.

He wanted to do something. He felt restless, as if shackled to the castle. He wanted to be outside the red walls of his cage, wanted to feel the wind in his hair and more importantly, he wanted to see blood. Joffrey had never understood why making it spill brought him such calmness, but everything was easier to process with death in the room. He supposed it was only normal for a monster such as the likes of him. His own blood was bitter, stained with darkness, and the knowledge scared him–and gave him freedom. Freedom to let go of whatever values he ought to respect, and let him do as he pleased.

He knew exactly what he needed then. He saw his page stationed outside the door, waiting for orders. Joffrey gave him a wicked smile, the first smile to stretch on his face that day.

"Ready the horses. Get the hounds. Find my crossbow…the one my father gave me a few years ago will do." The grin on his face spread, a devilish thing that made the servant's eyes widen in gods knew what.

"We're going on a hunt."

* * *

><p>After she had eaten, Sansa got dressed in a simple, pale blue dress. She twisted the front strands of her hair back from her face, and let the rest fall in a flaming cascade of ringlets. Her maid had said the seamstress wouldn't be here before noon, so Sansa took the liberty of roaming the castle. As much as she loved her room, she often felt trapped inside it.<p>

She missed the days where she could wonder around Winterfell, with complete freedom of the grounds. She had loved to ride, and her brother Robb had even taught her how to hunt a little. She had mastered the art of falconning with ease, and her aim with the bow, a graceful weapon made from a fallen branch of the heart tree, could have been worse. She longed for the feel of a horse under her, for that powerful bird soaring ahead, for the smell of the wolfswood under the summer snows.

Sansa shook her head sadly. There would be none of that here. No point deluding herself, building up a gorgeous little dream only to see it crushed under the tyrannical smile of that golden haired boy.

She grabbed a light cloak made of a warm black material, and headed outside.

She strolled absentmindedly, her feet guiding her where they pleased. It wasn't hard to get lost inside the Red Keep; it was huge, and there was always a new corridor, a new room to look at. For the past month or two, she had been granted complete freedom of the castle, and it had become her little game to err it, if only to not have to be at court or shut in her chambers. Despite the horrors these walls had seen, the place was breathtaking, and Sansa hadn't failed to notice it. The red, carved rock, the bright, open rooms, the outstanding gardens… All of it was wonderful beyond doubt. _Well, there are worse places to be imprisoned, _she sighed.

It was a lovely morning, the sun shining bright and golden, pleasantly warming Sansa's skin. A gentle breeze blew, fragrant with the smell of flowers, and with an undertone of death. Sansa could whiff that faint odor the dead leaves gave off, and knew that it meant one thing, something she had been reminded of her entire life. _Winter is indeed coming. It always is. All these years, we wait for winter, knowing the days of summer, of joy and ease and light are numbered, slipping away like sand through our mortal fingers. The gods play a cruel jape on us by giving us such beauty, such delight, only to strip it away when the snows arrive. Only the harsh, jagged things survive then, none of them nice to look at. Lives can be spent in darkness, and warmth never truly seeps through the frozen bones. It's inevitable, always has been, always will be; winter is coming, _she mused darkly, thinking of the summer snows in Winterfell. Her father had always said she had been a child of light, yet untried by winter and its hardships. Perhaps he was right… She was in a glorious castle, with everything she could possibly need, and a chance of being the next queen of Westeros, yet all she could do was try not to shake as Joffrey came near her, try not to give in to the Queen and her pawns. What would she do when winter truly came?

She knew she wouldn't last a gods-damned day.

Deep down, she was nothing but a coward, a puppet hanging limp from its strings, strings at times held by the King, at times by his mother, at times by this and that lord. She had the blood of the North, yet she was a pathetic excuse for a daughter of Winterfell. Sansa couldn't play a bloody game with rich, fat idiots. How was she to survive what came next? How was she to stay intact until Robb came?

_Gods have mercy on me. _

Sansa continued to stroll through the castle, forsaking all thoughts of her incompetence. It was too nice a day to be spoiled by her dark mood. So she wondered around, paying no heed to her surroundings.

She was jarred from her musings by the sound of several hooves thundering on the paved courtyard of the Red Keep. She looked up to see Joffrey and four men astride lively stallions, armed to the teeth and followed by a retinue of hounds. He was wearing hunting clothes, simple yet finely made; worn, knee high leather boots; and an emerald cloak tied around his neck by a golden stag. His hair was ruffled, a wild tangle of golden locks, and his eyes were flashing. _He's in too good a mood,_ she thought, wincing as she reviewed the various ways he taunted her in when he chanced to be in a particularly bright humor.

Sansa stood as still as she could, praying the King would simply ride past and go off to hunt, or whatever it was he was doing.

Had she ever mentioned how cruel the gods were? Because yet again, those green eyes settled on her, and blending in with the others in the yard was no longer an option.

She felt fear beginning to course through her, but remembering her dream, and the brilliant idea it had given her, she laced her fingers in front of her, lifted her chin and let a small smile appear on her features. She felt herself going from a scared maiden to a composed lady in seconds.

"Your Grace," she said politely, bowing her head.

Already, Joffrey towered over Sansa by a good head or so, but on his horse, he reached a formidable height, making her very uncomfortable. It was unfair for him to have such a good vantage point, to be able to look down on her so well.

She let none of her annoyance show.

"Why are you smiling?" he growled in an irritated voice. It took all her willpower not to flinch.

"It's a lovely day, why shouldn't I smile?", she said innocently. Where she had suddenly found the courage to speak to him like this, she would never know. She found herself smiling genuinely this time.

It was Joffrey's turn to look slightly baffled, if only for an instant. "As you wish. I'm going hunting, in the Kingswood. It is indeed a fair day to kill some pigs," he said, arrogance oozing into his voice. He flashed Sansa a devilish grin, more like a flash of teeth. "Perhaps soon I'll . the chance of hunting wolves," he continued, scrutinizing the daughter of Winterfell for any sign of anger, to see if she was riled up.

Sansa let her smile turn cold, and willed her cobalt eyes to look fierce. _I am going to regret this later, and badly. Seven save me. _

"Not if the wolves come for you first," she said in a low voice, so that only he could hear. She was mad, but at this point, she was beyond caring. She was tired of his slights.

_No more. _

"I'll be taking my leave now, Your Grace. I expect the seamstress to be here soon, and I'd hate to be late," she announced, trying to sound like her lady mother. Sansa felt her self-control slipping away, and her fear barreling against her defenses, ready to take over. She simple bowed and left, as if she were the Queen dismissing a subject. She couldn't help but think that if Arya and Jon had been here, they'd both be snickering in a corner, like the damned idiots they were, and that eased her fear.

* * *

><p>When Sansa returned to her chambers, all anguish gone, she found the seamstress and her maid chatting trivially. They gave small curtsies as she strode in, still thriving on that rush of bravery that had given her the idea to talk to Joffrey so insolently. Sansa had a feeling she would rue being impulsive, but it felt <em>so<em> liberating. In those moments, she hadn't been shackled by her fear, or her station. She was a princess in her own right, and it was time she behaved like one.

The seamstress was a small, kindly woman, her face wrinkled, circled by neatly combed gray hair, pulled back into a braided bun. She wore a simple shift, and spoke not of extravagance, but anyone could tell she was talented. Her brown eyes were alert, as if already calculating what size she might be and what type of dress best suited Sansa. She had long, nimble fingers, and not for a second did Sansa doubt they had created masterpieces of cloth and embroidery.

"My lady, I'm going to take your measurements first. It'd be best if you stayed in your small clothes for this," the seamstress said in a firm, gentle voice. Sansa did as she was bid, and in a few minutes, the seamstress had gotten her ribbon around her waist, taken her height, noted down the dimension of her chest and hips, and a myriad of other small measurements Sansa had no idea were needed in dress-making.

The old woman then gazed at Sansa thoughtfully, taking in the color of her hair, her skin, her eyes, tilting her head a little, her tongue poking out of her mouth. Sansa felt slightly uncomfortable, but didn't show it. Surely this kindly seamstress knew what she was doing. Maybe she was just trying to figure out what would look nicer on Sansa. She took a deep breath and bore the gaze of the woman, her face calm. The seamstress finally shook her head, her eyes becoming bright again, and gave herself a satisfied nod.

"That will be all my lady. I believe I should have the first dresses ready in a few days. His Grace has bid me to put your gowns before any other."

Sansa stared a little surprised. She wasn't getting a say in how the dresses should look? No, that couldn't possibly happen, if not that dream, the small shreds of courage growing inside of her like fragile flowers that might one day blossom, would have been for naught. She regained her composure and said in a voice much more confident than she felt, "Can I not look at some designs first? There are a few ideas I had in mind, I would have liked to discuss them with you."

The kindly woman gave her a puzzled look, before her face crinkled into a smile.

"Most of my clients just have their measures taken and let me do the rest, but by all means, if you'd like to have a peek at some sketches, you are more than welcome to do so. I'm afraid you'll have to come to my workshop though, I haven't brought anything.

_Joffrey will kill me for this. This will be the last of Sansa Stark. _

It took her less than a second to come to a decision.

"We better be off then, I'd hate to be back after dark."

_More like I'd hate to be back after Joffrey. _

* * *

><p>The entire afternoon was a mess of fabric, of sketches and beads, of color palettes and cakes, of a shared love for dresses and their making. Sansa hadn't had this much fun in ages.<p>

The seamstress's workshop was one of the most wonderful places she had ever seen. One room was filled with tables and chairs, where several of the seamstress' apprentices and workers sat huddled over gowns, carefully sewing, they nimble fingers working amazingly fast. The tables were strewn with stencils and scraps of fabric, with pins and thread and needles, even with beads and gems sometimes. There was another room filled with shelves and shelves of cloth, each piece carefully rolled around a wooden pole as to not wrinkle it, arranged by color, value, and place of origin. Sansa couldn't fathom the time it must have taken to come up with such a clever system. Another room was occupied by wooden figures on which rested completed dresses, waiting to be picked up. The were beautiful, there was no denying it, but Sansa saw that they resembled each other vaguely, all following the same style, and encouraging her to do what Arya had wanted, to find her weapon and hone it.

At first, the seamstress, who's name turned out to be Magda, led Sansa to a small parlor where she offered Sansa tea and cakes, over which they discussed Sansa's ideas. Magda was staring dubiously at the dresses Sansa was describing, sometimes nodding, sometimes shaking her head, imagining what the girl saw. Finally, she said, "These dresses are most unusual, and definitely not in accordance with the current fashion. Are you sure you want these? You'll stand out amongst the others."

"I'm tired of the same southern dresses every lady wears," Sansa sighed, giving the seamstress a weary smile. "It's time for some change, I believe. I'd much rather wear a gown that might make me look foreign than yet another classic Westerosi dress."

"Very well. Also, these designs are quite… daring," the seamstress said, pointing to one of the sketches Sansa had made rather quickly of a revealing model.

"Oh, but that's the point," she declared, giving Magda a wild grin which the old lady returned after a pause.

"We better go look at some fabric then."

And that was precisely what Sansa did. All afternoon, she gazed at hundreds if not thousands of different pieces of textile, of every color, every texture, of Myr, of Lys, of Volantis, and even Asshai.

At the end of the day, she had twenty dresses sketched out, fabrics chosen and the embroidery all explained in detail to the seamstress by Sansa. The beads and gems to go on certain gowns were picked, and the kindly woman gave Sansa some jewelry to go with them as a gift, to thank her for the new ideas. She also seemed tired of making the same dresses.

Sansa left the workshop just as twilight began to settle on King's Landing. She stared at the guards who had come with her, trying to look as powerful as possible. She had lied and said Joffrey had given her leave to get out of the castle, and knew that if she looked frightened, or even hesitant, the armored men would know. She climbed on her horse, and they left, making their way to the top of Visenya's hill, to the red palace.

The entire way, Sansa prayed to every god she knew of that Joffrey hadn't returned yet, and that he would never know she had falsified his word. He would surely kill her for that, or punish her himself. His guards were bad enough, she didn't want every blow to be his.

Finally, after the slowest ride Sansa had ever had the misfortune of going through, she passed the gates of the Red Keep, and slowed her horse down, a stable boy already running to help her from her mount. She handed the reins to him, and tried to look as if her returning to the castle so late was normal, as if her heart wasn't racing and her hands were trembling, as if her gut wasn't clenched in anticipation, in fear of what might come next.

She was about to make her way inside when she heard more hooves clopping on the courtyard.

She felt that glare on her back before she even saw it.

_May the gods have mercy on me. _

Sansa turned around, everything in her focused on not loosing her temper, of keeping herself in tow, of not breaking down as the king approached her, eyes like wildfire.

* * *

><p>The hunt had been excellent.<p>

Joffrey had chosen his best men to accompany him, not wanting a large hunting party like his father had often led, preferring stealth, speed, and skill above a handful of drunken lords who laughed too loudly and were too fat for their horses. A party of five in total, himself included.

The day had been perfect, with a mild weather and a pleasant wind. Their horses had made good speed through the woods, and Joffrey had relished in the feel of the breeze rushing through his hair, earth flying under the hooves of his stallion, buzzing with the anticipation of the hunt, with the thought of killing.

Joffrey wasn't the best with a sword _yet_, but his aim with the crossbow, or any bow, was flawless. His spear throwing could also use some improving, but one of the men he had chosen, a Lannister guard, thrust the weapon well enough for the two of them.

He had been ruthless with the animals, barely giving them the chance to register his presence before an arrow pierced them in the eye, a clean shot that killed them instantly. He had succeeded in bringing down two deer, and a few large birds, whilst his men also got some game, even a boar.

They made their way back to the capital in the late afternoon sun, all laden with dead game, game they would surely enjoy for supper. Maybe Joffrey would hold a small feast. He felt like celebrating.

The scent of death, the thrill of the hunt had put him a such a good mood, he took the liberty of sharing some jokes with the guards, a rare feat. He was weary, stained with blood and mud, but it was all brilliant. He hadn't thought of Sansa Stark once.

_Nothing_ could ruin his day.

That is, until he arrived at the Red Keep to see_ her _dismissing some guards, a stable boy leading her horse away.

She had her back to him, but he noticed her shoulders go rigid when she heard the hooves of his horse, as if knowing exactly what would come next. _Maybe she's not as daft as she seems. _

Joffrey hadn't forgotten their exchange this morning, where she had dared to speak to him so insolently, where she had taken her leave without his permission, where she had disrespected him so blatantly. Anger rushed through him, an unstoppable wave of ire, of power, all directed at one girl with fiery hair.

Oh, she had better fear what would come next.

His resolve to punish her faltered a little when she turned around, her face calm, her body no longer tense, her eyes nothing but blue pools of water, still and unwavering. He failed to see her clenched hands though, or the slight paleness of her face in the evening gloom.

He dismounted, shoving his horse at a frightened servant, taking long, powerful strides toward her. Most people usually averted their eyes when he walked like that, knowing the simplest thing could set him off.

Sansa Stark simply bowed her head a little, a small sign of submission, her eyes never leaving his.

"_What_ in the name of the seven were you doing _outside_ the castle?" he asked, his voice dead, betraying nothing of the rage bubbling inside. He saw her waver a little, if only for a second, before erasing all trace of unease from her features, her eyes determined.

"I went to the seamstress' workshop," she replied innocently, batting her eyelashes.

"By who's leave?"

This question had her gulping, and she averted her eyes.

"I asked you a question, Lady Stark," he spat, her name sounding like venom. He didn't need her answer to know who's leave she had.

She then did the last thing he was expecting. She took a step closer, and glared up at him, despite her height. Their faces were so close he could see every detail of those gems she had for eyes. And her _scent._ Something sweet, flowery, and slightly fresh, like northern forests after rain. It was bloody intoxicating.

He kept staring her down, and he could feel her breath tickling his neck. Her nostrils were flaring, and he could tell she would have no more of his nonsense. As if that would stop him from giving it to her.

The words that came out of her next were what made Joffrey rethink that twice.

"Truthfully? By my _own_. To everyone in this castle? By yours," she said, her voice a whisper, barely audible, yet as clear as day. Every word was enunciated carefully, so that they sunk into Joffrey's bones and shook him.

"Let's keep it that way, it'd be much more pleasant for me. And for you too, I suppose. I'd _hate_ it for your mother to know you can't keep the _stupid _Sansa Stark on her pretty little leash."

That was the last straw for the golden King.

She was Sansa, a nobody, powerless in this court where everyone was her enemy. He knew she was afraid of him. He knew she cried. He had seen her break in the godswood, seen that wolf take over her, and her grief when the creature left. Sansa would never have this much power over him.

He was Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, King of Westeros, and he would not have any nonsense from this girl. From this wreck of a person.

_Never. _

Which is precisely why he leaned in, his mouth right on her ear, and said a few words very quietly, almost like a growl, something feral and deep. Something a lion might say.

"Oh, but I'd hate it if your mother saw Sansa's Stark pretty little face mangled and scarred. That would be so much worse than any death you're hoping I have in mind for you, wouldn't it? Then who would want _you_ but a monster like _me_?"

He felt her gasp more than her heard it, her breath hot against him. _Gods_, her smell was wonderful, like some drug from one of the Free Cities over the Narrow Sea.

_No._

He then pulled from her ear, and let his stare piece through hers, blue against green, wolf against lion. To his surprise, she stared back, her eyes digging into his, penetrating him, entrancing him.

Joffrey didn't know who looked away first, but after the longest minute of his life, she walked away, that sorry dress of hers flying in the gentle wind.

* * *

><p><strong>Hehe, how about that huh? Let me know what you thought of this, your reviews really do help and motivate me to write more. Please, if you like this, favorite, follow, review, tell your friends about it! <strong>

**Also, next chapter is gonna be well... Special *wink***

**STAY RAD!**

**–Estella xx**


	5. Chapter 5

**_DON'T KILL ME! _**

**I'm so sorry for taking more than a month to update, school's been nuts, and my computer decided to fail me. yay! I would have updated 2 weeks earlier if I hadn't had to get it fixed. Sorry!**

**Anyways, new chapter, that's what matters! This one is extra long (I've been writing more and more each time haha), so enjoy! **

**PS: Vaelor is pronounced Vay-lur**

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 5<em>

Sansa walked out of the bathing room, her breathing heavy and her cheeks flushed. She made sure the door to her chambers was locked before collapsing against them, a long sigh escaping her lips. She couldn't go on like this; not if she wanted to make it out of this hell hole, and definitely not if she wanted to make it out with a shred of dignity.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

As soon as she had turned away from Joffrey in the courtyard, her stomach had given a twist, and bile had risen up her throat. _No, not now_. It had taken every ounce of self control to keep walking at a leisurely pace, to keep her face composed, serene, her gait easy and lady-like, and that ever present smile plastered on her face. Even after she was out of the boy king's sight she felt that piercing glare on her like a gentle dagger caressing her neck, a weapon so wicked it would take nothing but a simple prick to draw blood. Because that was what Joffrey was, wasn't it? A vile, cruel blade dressed in pretty silks, a well spoken, kind looking thing that could wreak havoc with nothing more than a look, a touch, a sign. King or not, no man should be given such power. Not when their heart is so black.

Sansa had made her way back to her chambers as best she could, although she felt like she was fooling no one. Joffrey disgusted her, made her sick, and that feeble twist of her lips wouldn't hide that. Servants nodded as she passed them, and a few hopeful nobles attempted to engage conversation with her, but she ignored them and kept going, step after step, her mind blank but for a simple thought. Breathe in. Breathe out. _Come on, one more step_. Breathe in. Breathe out. _It's the next corridor._ Breathe in. Breather out. _Almost at the door._ Breathe in. Breathe–

She didn't breathe out. How could she? What she did do was slam her door shut, run to the latrines and fall to her knees before the polished stone bowl, heaving the cakes the seamstress had given her, until every last crumb had gone down the drain.

The memory, so near yet so distant, brought a shaky laugh to Sansa's throat.

Bloody pathetic.

It wasn't in her habit to swear– Arya had always been the one muttering curses here and there, making Jon laugh and Lady Catelyn frown– but to hell with that. Sansa Stark was reduced to pieces, and she felt like no amount of bravery or false bravados on her part would do anything to help mend the gaping hole that was growing inside her, sucking at her happiness, her kindness, and that childish look that made the world seem a better place.

Her innocence was now gone.

It was the very first time she had allowed herself the thought. The hole grew a little bigger –that dark abyss that had first teared through her when her father had died– and sucked at her being like some slimy leach. It only made her laugh a little louder.

It was so wrecked, so hollow, so hysteric, Sansa had trouble realizing she was the one who's _mirth _echoed emptily on the walls. _Seven hells, _she thought, another laugh shaking her frail frame, rasping against her throat like sandpaper.

A wave of revulsion took over Sansa. Her mouth still tasted of bile, she could feel her hair escaping from the few pins that held it in place, her eyes must be glazed with exhaustion, with hysteria, with the longing of a home miles and miles away. She could see herself, almost as if her eyes had left her body, limp and shaky against the huge wooden doors, so small, so fragile. How would she ever achieve anything if she looked like she would break the minute some green eyes settled on her, if she couldn't even be daring without being _physically sick _afterwards?

Sansa felt that little wolf inside her growl disapprovingly, and all she could do was stare at herself and whisper, "I know. I'm not worthy of you. Might as well go and leave me to rot in this gods-damned place."

She wanted to be worthy. No, she _needed_ to be worthy. Her life, her honor, the future of her House depended on it. And that's when the most peculiar thought crossed Sansa's mind, a brilliant, blatant, alien thought she had always known of, but never acknowledged.

The only reason she was in this mess was because she was playing this game, this wicked meeting of minds and cunning, like a child. And of course a child would cry herself to sleep if things didn't go as planned. Of course a child would allow others to make decisions for her, fearing responsibility. Of course she was docile and subdued, fearing an adult's retribution, flinching at a glare, a twitch of a hand.

She meddled with that revelation for an infinity, staring at nothing, barely moving but for the now steady heaving of her chest, up and down, breathe in breathe out. As her mind whirled, something began changing inside the Princess of Winterfell. Unconsciously, she sat a little straighter, lifted her chin, and that mysterious, ever present smile returned to her lips. Her eyes, so blue, so intense, became more focused, and began shining with purpose. The little wolf who coiled against Sansa's heart grinned, or at least she thought he did.

Something inexplicable had shifted in her. She didn't know how she had gone from retching and laughing madly to this calm, this serenity that was shrouding her, gently easing the jagged edges of the hole inside her, and appeasing her grief, her anger. With this peace of mind, Sansa rose to her feet, and after rapidly fixing her appearance as to not alert her handmaids, she called for them, and asked for a bath.

Although Sansa didn't notice, her maid looked at the girl quizzically. Even asking for a bath, she had sounded different, more mature, more… _regal. _Once her handmaidens had thought Sansa weak, a broken bird that made for good gossip, but they now found themselves face to face with a girl of steel. How the tables had turned.

After having bathed and changed into a clean nightgown, Sansa went to bed, feeling her exhaustion dragging at her, urging her to rest her head and close her eyes.

For the first time in months, Sansa hadn't written and burned a letter. The thought hadn't even crossed her mind. The time for silly childish games was over, and now she had to rise above her situation and make sure no one ever underestimated the blood of the North.

Because it was more than her reputation at stake; it was the reputation of House Stark, and she could live with letting herself down, but not her family, not her father's memory. Not when she had triggered his death by going to the queen.

As she drifted off, Sansa could almost see her lady mother nodding proudly at her daughter, a melancholy smile on her lovely features.

* * *

><p>Joffrey found it hard to enjoy his dinner, despite the fact it was he who had brought down the fawn, a glorious beast killed in its prime. He had told himself he wouldn't let anything ruin his day, yet here he sat, skulking, because the foolish girl had had the audacity to stand up to him.<p>

Oddly enough, he found it refreshing. It was one thing to have everyone kiss his feet when he was looking and then plot his demise when his back was turned, but it was another to face him down like she had. Oh, she hadn't said anything too alarming, but the spark of animosity had been there, and he had to admit she was brave for speaking up. Stupid beyond belief, yes, but brave.

He realized that the only reason he was so bothered by this was because no one dared to deny him. It was always a game of "please the King", as he called it, an amusing name for what was really "Who can kiss the King's ass better". And then there was Sansa, who could go from some small, meek, shy, powerless little bird to a fearless, imposing, ferocious wolf in a matter of hours, always surprising Joffrey–and recently, pleasantly surprising him. Not that he would admit to that.

Joffrey Baratheon was bored, and Sansa Stark might just be the distraction he was looking for. She riled him up, made him question things, and he liked that. Of course, she would never be more than the traitor's daughter, and her behavior was unacceptable. She had had the audacity to mock him, to put his authority on the line, and she would't go unpunished. No, that would be far to easy.

To hell with his responsibilities as king; no one took him seriously, so he might as well keep playing the part a little longer. No, what he wanted now was to make Sansa pay. She had nor right to keep him from sleeping, no right to oppose him, no right to do anything but be a docile little girl, whom he hoped would suffer enough before he ever had to marry her. She was _nothing._ She couldn't be allowed to find her footing, as she was clearly doing. Not ever.

With that thought in mind, with the image of Sansa broken to pieces, crushed under her fear, her grief, he took a sip of wine, and smiled.

His mother, who was supping with him and his siblings raised a golden eyebrow and asked Joffrey, "What puts you in such a good mood?"

"Oh, just the hunt. We did well today," was all he answered, before going back to methodically cutting his meat with his dagger. Myrcella and Tommen exchanged looks, and Cersei watched the entire scene with that lazy, feline gaze that seemed to run in the family.

Joffrey looked up and met her eyes. There was a glint of something in them, although he couldn't tell what. Was it worry? No, it was too… calculated. His paranoia began nagging at his brain again. Of course she was probably thinking of some way to have power for herself as well. Who didn't want the throne to themselves? He almost laughed bitterly.

But why did the throne matter so much to him? If there was one thing Joffrey knew, it was that he was a terrible king. Hells, he wasn't much of a king at all; he rarely attended council meetings, only went to court when he felt like punishing someone, and let his impulse, his anger rule him. It was just so easy to let his inner demon make the decisions for him though, to not fight for anything, to just be. He had given up the fight for good, the belief in good, a long time ago.

Maybe somewhere deep down, a part of him could find redemption. Maybe a small piece of his black soul had not yet been tarnished by the violent delights he had taken to. But being like this had become a habit, a cold, cruel mask he slipped on every morning without thinking. It was so easy, so natural, so tempting. The idea of one day being better seemed attractive, there was no point lying about that. It was just too far away, too hard, and too unobtainable. He had nothing worth fighting for; his kingdom could fall to pieces and he wouldn't care, in truth.

Once upon a time, Joffrey had dreamed of being greater than Aegon the Conqueror, had been fed tales of his splendor, of his accomplishments, and had strived to achieve them. Then it had happened. Then he had known. It would never be his destiny to be a king; he was an abomination, a monster, something that shouldn't exist. What was the point of being good when you knew how bleak, how disgusting you were?

Yet here he stood, King of Westeros, when he deserved to be called what he was, when he deserved to be acknowledged for a–

"Joffrey? Myrcella asked you a question," Cersei said, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yes, sorry, what is it Ella?" he asked, trying to put a genuine smile on his face. Joffrey might be a monster, and he knew exactly what ran in his blood, but there were two souls he tried to be unfailingly kind to– although he wasn't always good at it–, and it was Myrcella and Tommen. They were so young, so innocent, and didn't deserve his fate. He would tear the whole world down for his brother and sister, to shield them, to keep them happy, healthy, _alive_.

_Ignorant too. _

Myrcella raved on about some silly, beautiful game of hers, and Joffrey did his best to listen, to nod enthusiastically and make her feel understood, but his mind was elsewhere. When he felt he wouldn't be causing offense by taking his leave, he returned to his room, where he spent another part of the night lost in thought, a boy and his nightmare fighting, one with a sword, the other with a stick.

The monster always wins.

But which one?

* * *

><p>During the following week, Joffrey only saw Sansa once. It was a brief encounter, if an unexpected one, and he had absolutely no idea what to make of it.<p>

It was a few days after the hunt, and Joffrey awoke a bit before dawn from yet another sleepless night. He hadn't been sleeping well lately, and it was starting to show. Dark moons appeared under his eyes, his temper was short, he preferred time spending time alone. For the first time in ages, he was grateful for his mother's blood, which somehow made the sleep disappear from his face before he had to face anyone, and made his exhaustion nearly imperceptible.

With a sigh he rolled out of bed and went to the window. The sky was beginning to light with that faint grey blue that appeared before the sun, heralding its arrival. It was pristine, calm, the entire castle and city still slumbering. It seemed he was the only soul for miles and miles. Maybe it was best that way.

Before he knew what he was doing, Joffrey found himself dressed and buckling his sword belt. He took his blade and slipped it into it's scabbard, watching the glint of the rippled steel as it slid into place. He needed a name for the sword, but he simply didn't know how to give it justice. Such a beautiful weapon. What was it he had told Sansa? Ah, yes, that the gems were to remind him how to be a better king. Yet another lie. Yet another layer to his mask.

He grabbed his black cloak before leaving his chambers. The Hound was on duty outside his door, and simply nodded before following Joffrey outside. No questions were asked, no words were spoken. The man with the hideous face truly was a dog. _My dog. _What a delightful truth.

Joffrey didn't exactly know where he was going. He let his feet carry him where they would, breathing in the cool, morning air, feeling it clear his head like a breeze disperses smoke. He instantly felt more awake. He truly needed to find a remedy to his insomnia. Perhaps a visit to Maester Pycelle was in order. He didn't like the old man much, with his shiny, shrewd eyes and wizard's beard, but he was supposedly the best at what he did, and he was ready to put his dislike aside for a good night's sleep.

At last, he arrived before the door that led to the godswood. "Wait here," he told the Hound without sparing him a glance. He stepped inside and let the wooden door fall shut.

The effect of the godswood was immediate. The silence that had wrapped the world around him grew deeper, and once more he felt the gaze of the trees on him. Dawn had finally come, and beams of golden light fell on the pines, emerald playing on gold. Parts of the woods were still plunged in shadow, but others shone brightly with the morning, more alive and beautiful than anything he had ever seen. Well, almost anything. He remembered that long journey North he had undertaken to Winterfell over a year ago. Every morning, the Stark's home had lit up similarly, and the wolfswood had shone with the same intensity, molten gold gently coating the leaves. It had been so much more wonderful there; up North, things seemed to be disconnected, apart. In King's Landing, everything was a great big jumble, a puzzle only the best players knew how to piece together, but the North was ruled by simplicity, by a pure, separate entity than the South, and he had felt it.

The same sort of force ruled this tiny piece of the North, this little haven of beauty untarnished by the debauchery and madness of the South, and a peace of mind came to the King, gently easing him into a serene, almost other state. He could have slept all night here. Maybe he could dare Tommen to camp with him here. It would certainly be relaxing.

He strode easily to the center of the godswood, where he found Sansa staring at the heart tree, her hair like fire in the dawn. She glanced at him rapidly, bowing her head, before retuning to her quiet observation of the tree. She didn't seem to be minding him, so he took the opportunity to look at her. Something about her composure was different, but he couldn't pin down what had changed.

He let his hand rest on the pommel of his sword, and joined Sansa in gazing at the weirwood, trying to see what she saw. Silence settled between them like an old friend, and the golden light continued to settle on the world around him.

"What are you doing out of bed so early?" he asked, curiosity pricking his mind.

She still didn't look at him. "I couldn't sleep," she replied simply. No "Your Grace". No formality. He wasn't really bothered by it; despite the fact this was his castle, he still felt unwelcome here. Sansa on the other side looked at home; the woods seemed to welcome her, to embrace her presence. The light fell almost perfectly on her, making her features look heavenly. It was as if the vert essence of the place wanted to flaunt her, to make her look regal.

Now why in the Seven Hells was he thinking that? It must be the strange aura surrounding the place and the lack of sleep.

"I can see why you like it here," he said, looking around the woods. "It's so… Other."

This time she did look at him, her expression quizzical. She gave him a small smile.

"It is lovely, isn't it? It reminds me of home. It's quiet, and it's lonely. Everything here is always buzzing with life, teeming with people, it's wonderful to just shut that door and enter a new world."

"It must have been nice growing up in Winterfell."

"You could say that," she said, her eyes glazed with a memory. He couldn't help but enjoy this easy conversation, the absence of glares, and, _gods, _that smell of hers. He had smelt it before, and he couldn't get enough. It was intoxicating, sweet yet sharp, something uniquely hers and _so _mind-reeling.

_I really need some sleep. _

"I've never seen you use your sword."

"What?"

Sansa returned her gaze to the weirwood and clasped her hands together. "I've never seen you fight with your blade. All of the other guards always train, yet I've never seen you on the field."

It was nothing more than an observation. She wasn't taunting him, she wasn't trying to mess with his mind as she had the other night, she was simply stating it, which was why Joffrey didn't feel that flare of temper that usually accompanied such remarks.

"I haven't had the chance. Plus, it's always so crowded in the courtyard, it's smothering. No freedom to properly practice."

"Well you should," Sansa answered, a little sharply even, her face regaining a little something of that feral smile that had once possessed her. "No one should have such a magnificent weapon and not know how to use it. It's cowardly. Dishonorable even," she continued, a spark in her tone.

_This _did make him angry. "And what do you know of blades and honor?"

Much to his surprise, she laughed. It was a short, quipped sound, more sarcastic than joyful. "About as much as any Stark. Which is a considerable amount more than you."

He raised an eyebrow. He felt the anger stirring in him, threatening to take control. Hells, he might let it. Forget all that nonsense about toying around with her, she couldn't be allowed to continue this way.

"The Stark honor may be fabled around the land, but look where it got your father."

Sansa paled, and her glare was murderous right then. She wasn't even bothering to hide it. What was it with her?

"I'd rather not have a lick of honor and be alive, Lady Stark. I suggest you do the same. For both our sakes. It would be rather," he paused, and shot her a mischievous grin,"unfortunate if one of us came to perish before our Houses were joined."

"It would indeed be a terrible tragedy for the Lannisters to lose their King," was all she said before going back to her silent observation of the tree. What was it she saw in that damned weirwood?

He left before anything else could be said, his rage threatening to overwhelm him.

Oh, so she wanted to live now? For the past few months, her eyes had been a death wish, every flinch an invitation to let her go, every scream a plea for help, every bruise yet another invitation on her part to pull out his sword and be done with her.

The following morning, when Sansa walked past the field, a solitary figure was drilling his swordplay, a blade of valyrian steel glinting in the fiery dawn.

A genuine grin spread across her face.

He had listened.

* * *

><p>A few days had gone by since her encounter with Joffrey in the godswood, slow, monotonous days filled with lazy walks and thinking, so much thinking.<p>

Sansa knew it was foolish on her part, but she couldn't help the feeling of pride that was slowly growing inside her. She hadn't flinched. She hadn't been frightened. And she'd gotten him to listen. It had even been relatively pleasant–although the gods knew she wouldn't admit to that. She could live like this, she supposed. Their conversation _had _ended in more threats, but it was becoming more of a habit, more of a childish fight to see who had the upper hand than anything else.

Every morning, as she walked to the godswood a little before dawn to collect her thoughts and admire the beautiful sunrise and the way the light, sometimes orange, sometimes gold, sometimes pink, played on the deep green of the dew covered leaves, she saw him sparing. He wasn't always alone, but when he was, Sansa stopped and watched him for a minute. She didn't necessarily like Joffrey, but no one with eyes could say he wasn't beautiful in his own wicked way, and Sansa had to enjoy the nicer things in life, right? At least, she felt entitled to it. For months she had been abandoned in this hole with miserable people who did nothing but pity her. What was wrong with looking?

If Arya could hear her, she would have probably began sticking her tongue out and making a disgusted face before pretending to retch all over the place. She wished she was here to do it. _Oh, Arya. Where are you?_

The stillness of the woods was blissful. Not cowering before Joffrey and his pets was nerve wracking, and Sansa loved the way a few minutes lost in those great trees could soothe her, the gentle lullaby of the leaves in the faint breeze easing her back to that little safe haven that gave her strength. Truly, this was the most beautiful place in King's Landing. The Red Keep had it's wonders, and so did the sept of Baelor, but it was all artificial, too grand, too false to her taste. The godswood was simple, easy, pure; surrounded by lies as she was, it felt nice to know there was one place that remained true to her.

When she felt that the strange calm that layered the godswood had taken effect on her, and that she would be able to carry that eerie serenity in herself for the remainder of the day, she leisurely made her way back to the castle.

Sansa sat in her solar, finishing some needle work she had started out of boredom the previous day. It depicted that little wolf she sometimes felt inside, the one that could suddenly grow and make her lash out as it had all those nights ago in the godswood. Thank the heavens no one has seen her like that, it would be mortifying to face someone after her… fit.

She heard the door open and looked up to see one of her handmaids approach. Sansa couldn't help but feel she was a little uncomfortable. How unusual.

"My lady, some of your dresses have arrived. Should I have them brought up?"

A glint went into Sansa's eyes. "Please do. Also please get the others, I'd like to change and attend court," she finished, eyeing her dusty riding dress, the one she had donned in a haste that morning.

Sansa's handmaids brought up the dresses, and Sansa couldn't help but admire how fine they were, how the fabric slid through her fingers, how the colors were perfectly assorted. The seamstress had outdone herself. Sansa would have to send her her thanks.

Half of the dresses that were to be made arrived, alongside new undergarments, two cloaks, and, much to Sansa's surprise, a bit of jewelry. Attached to a gorgeous necklace made of silver, interweaved with small diamonds and sapphires was a note, which said this was a lot of jewelry other customers has forgotten or gotten rid of, and most of them were relics, perfect to bring back something new to court. A bubble of glee began growing inside her chest.

Sansa could barely recognize herself in her new dress. She had bathed and washed her long, auburn hair, and it shone brighter than usual. Her gaze no longer looked ghastly, defeated, and the dark half-moons under her eyes had almost disappeared. She dabbed some of the cosmetics she had bought recently to completely disguise the lack of sleep, and lined her eyes in kohl, making them stand out more than she would have thought possible.

_And her gown. _

It was simple yet elegant, and made of Sansa no longer a girl, but a woman. The dress, although beautiful, was more of a statement than just something she might wear because it was pretty, much like the rest of her new wardrobe. This dress gave her an air of composure, of purity, of innocence, as well as screaming out that she was a Stark. She hadn't wanted dresses that were too revealing, to provocative, because the Sansa everyone at court knew wouldn't wear such a design in a thousand years. No, this dress preserved that image of shyness, of fragility, but if you looked carefully, you could see the iron backbone beginning to grow, see the grace, the wolf beneath all her pretty silks. Then again, you had to look carefully.

The dress was a shimmery, pale blue mixed with gray and white, Stark colors for the Stark girl. The skirt wasn't full, but flowed seamlessly from her waist down to her feet, a billowy cloud of smoke that moved _with_ Sansa, not around her. The bodice was embroidered with small pearls, ivory glints that matched her fair skin perfectly. The sleeves were made of lace, and were at one with her arms, ending at her wrists, perfectly fitted. The wonder of the dress was in it's back, or rather the absence of it. Her entire back was bared, that creamy skin exposed all the way to the bottom of her spine. Silently, she thanked her mother for that small, wasp's waist and curvy hips that gave her silhouette such a smooth form, that made it flow, like one flawless line drawn in one movement. The only think covering her skin was her hair, at least until she pined it up into a elaborate yet easy to do braided style that rested at the nape of her neck, and seemed to hang of its own accord to her head. Not more southern hairstyles, high and heavy on her skull; this wasn't even something one might wear in the North. It was Sansa, unconditionally, incontestably, Sansa. She put a simple, silver headpiece in her fiery hair, discreet matching earrings that shone shyly, and on her left forefinger her signet ring, the direwolf of house Stark.

Simple, yet elegant.

Pride overwhelmed Sansa, pride at her ideas, pride at how beautiful she was, proud at how much of a lady she looked like. It filled her being, coursed through her veins, and gave her strength.

Strength to walk out of her bedroom and show herself to everyone in this castle.

Strength to to keep her chin help high, to walk as if she belonged to another world, to keep that impenetrable, mysterious smile on her lips and take her place amongst the other courtiers as if nothing was happening.

Strength to wear a lady's armor, courtesy and beauty, and to preserve that image of the cowering Stark girl who cared for nothing but pretty dresses and praying all day.

The gasps she got as she walked into the throne room were all she needed to know it had worked; their gaze had shifted.

And now the game could start.

LINE BREAKER.

Joffrey idly tapped his fingers against the Iron throne, a gentle, insistent strumming of fingernails on metal. He felt as if stopping would lead him to insanity.

After his now daily drill with his new blade at the crack of dawn, Joffrey had returned with a clear mind, and decided maybe he should precede over court today. Only certain members of the nobility or rich merchants would get an audience today, so he wouldn't have to listen to some petition about "My grandmother's hen Elga" for the next few hours. How bad it could be?

Pretty damn bad.

Petty lords and ladies with petty affairs of state, their petty requests and worries. All of them filed before him, spoke miles and miles of flattery before making ridiculous demands, to which he had to answer with a fake smile and barely concealed annoyance. He thought he might lose it right there if he had to listen to another lord.

He had called for a break, and courtiers were pacing around, talking in hushed tones and fanning their pompous faces. A servant brought Joffrey a glass of wine, which he sipped on eagerly, hoping that if he was a little drunk–only a little– he might be able to make the rest of the day much easier. He did have to give a certain impression after all, didn't he, even if he cared little for his station. He cared for his life though, and if keeping it meant sitting here for a few hours a week, so be it. He'd just skip every other small council meeting.

He heard the noise in the room momentarily tone down before returning again, although Joffrey could feel it was strained. He looked up from the idle study of his glass to see what was going on.

Oh, only _that_ could make the entire room quiet down, which was quite a feat seeing how much the nobles adored chatting.

A girl had made her way inside the throne room, lithe and graceful, unearthly even. She was wearing a blue and gray dress that seemed to flow around her, and her hair was a bright flash of red, styled elegantly at the bottom of her hair, so unlike the other ladies. She stopped and stood near a pillar, apparently oblivious to the hungry glances being thrown her way. The girl turned a little, and Joffrey noticed her dress left her entire back bare. His breath hitched. This was by far the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

No, pretty didn't quite describe it. Gorgeous, beautiful, magnificent were all words that might suit her, but Joffrey thought they didn't encompass the true splendor of her figure, of her fair skin, of her exquisite dress. Her body spoke of grace, delicacy, innocence, maybe even fragility– another glance her way told him it was definitely not fragility. There was a sort of quiet strength to her, almost imperceptible, but Joffrey had always been observant, and noticed it.

She looked like the kind of girl he might sketch, all flowing curves and smooth skin, high cheekbones and silky hair, with nimble, graceful hands and a slightly shy look to her. Joffrey had always had a soft spot for pretty things, and took even more pleasure in destroying them. As a child, he had set fire to numerous lovely flowers, objects, little things that were pleasant to the eyes and even more pleasant to see burned, or destroyed, broken to smithereens. Yet he couldn't help but think he couldn't destroy this beauty. Not when it was so ethereal, so ghastly. So pure.

She made him think of some sort of goddess. Not a sun goddess, despite how radiant her beauty was. This girl was more like the moon, silvery and shy, secretive, the orb that watched over secret lovers and the dark things of the night with an incomprehensible, calculated smile. The sun blazed, scorched, even if it did warm sometimes, whereas the moon brought light to the darkness, preserved secrecy when needed, and was the mistress of shadows. Moonlight only illuminated the necessary, and he liked that idea. Maybe it meant there was some form of redemption for him. Maybe someone might be able to shed light only on what little good he possessed, and, although aware of the bad, focus solely on the light.

So far, the girl's eyes had been averted, and he hadn't glimpsed them, although he had noticed they were lined with dark, something oddly beautiful to the golden king.

Which is why when her gaze lifted and he saw those eyes–blue nearing indigo, piercing, like two beautiful gems in a beautiful face–so familiar, so vivid, he did a double take.

It was Sansa.

How she had managed to look like this, he didn't know. She had always been pretty he supposed, in a childish way, but never like that; never so refined, so womanly. He remembered how he had told her to see the seamstress, distressed that his betrothed paraded around the castle in such ridiculous attire, but he hadn't expected her to outdo herself like this.

Oh, he still thought she was a stupid, foolish creature who would surely meet her doom in this palace with her idiocy and child-like way, but no amount of inner scolding or swearing could keep him from thinking that she looked like a true lady now. Like a queen even.

To the practiced eye, she looked as beautiful, as graceful, as lethal as a wolf.

And that sparked his interest.

* * *

><p>It was hard for Sansa to not jump in the air and scream in triumph. Admittedly, her success was small, but it was <em>something<em>. She noticed every glance, and heard every gasp. She felt the jealousy and the lust that soon flooded the room. And even though she knew this was nothing more than a little display of how lady-like she could look, she felt it would end up being so much more than that. Hell, it might pressure Joffrey into giving her more standing, or else every eligible bachelor in the room would be making requests soon.

Not that she would comply with any of them. She simply needed to prove she was more than a stupid, brainless maiden; she needed others to know she was worth something more. What? That was for them to decide. She would play dumb, play docile until she had more grounding. If there was one thing she wanted to do, it was live up to her name. For months now she had cowered, cried, walked around numbly, in a daze, and it was time she started working things out for herself. No one here, not even the Queen who she had so foolishly believed, had her best interests at hand.

She wasn't sure what she was out for exactly. Was it revenge? Was it a strange lust for power? Was it a need to be recognized as one of those beautiful ladies from a song?

The only thing she knew was that she wanted to weaken the Lannisters, to make sure that when the time came, her brother could slit their throats with more ease than a butcher killing pigs.

These past months spent wallowing in self-pity had been selfish on her part. She had forgotten of the family name and honor and succumbed to the whims of her girl's mind, disgracing herself in the eyes of court with split lips and puffy eyes.

Sansa stood near her pillar patiently, lost in thought. She wasn't paying attention to any of the whispers or gasps anymore. She'd seen the initial reaction, tested the nobility in her own little way, and that was enough. Now she'd just wait until this was over, and go for a walk.

You know that feeling you get when someone is peering intently at you, and you feel the nape of your neck tingle with that stare? Sansa shivered as she felt it. No one had looked at her for more than a few seconds, not wanting to be rude, she supposed. But she knew somehow that a pair of eyes wasn't leaving her. She had a hunch about who they belonged too.

She looked up and met then head on.

What almost made Sansa laugh in surprise was the confusion on Joffrey's face. He hadn't realized it was her, gods be good. The quizzical features smoothed into that usual hungry, lopsided grin he constantly had–well, at least when he wasn't scowling– and he kept staring at her, unashamed. Oh, if there was one person who could look at her as much as he wanted, it was him, not only because he was the King, but because he was her betrothed, and she practically belonged to him as far as things went. She sighed discreetly. Why must women be the property of men their entire lives? First their fathers, then their husbands. Not a lick of freedom. Of course, Ned had never made Sansa feel like property, like some good he could just sell of into marriage, but Joffrey did have this way of looking at her like she was nothing but a mere toy, and it infuriated her. If only she could be her own person.

She looked away from Joffrey and focused her eyes on the ceiling, pretending to admire the carvings in the red rock. She hadn't realized her heart was beating rapidly until now. _Damn it Sansa, you stupid girl. _Joffrey wasn't allowed to get that kind of reaction from her. He wouldn't get that reaction. _Ever._

The next hour passed in a blur. Sansa didn't pay much attention to the various requests that were made, and ended up daydreaming about Winterfell when the last petitioner had finished and Joffrey put an end to the session.

She was about to make her way outside, but was somehow cornered by Joffrey. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. She didn't really feel like talking to him at this very moment. Still, she nodded politely to him, having to lift her head to properly look at his face. Why was he so tall? At fifteen, he was taller even then quite a few of the other lords, and he seemed to refuse to stop growing. Sansa wasn't very lank herself, but her limbs being slender and graceful like a dancer's, she looked taller than she was. Well, she supposed it was only fitting for a lady to be petite.

He offered her his arm without a word, and she took it, letting him walk her out of the throne room as he had a week ago or so, although then, he was wearing a bloodthirsty grin and had left a corpse in his wake. Now, he merely seemed polite, good-humored, as a king should be. She knew it was only a facade though.

They walked in silence, but for once it wasn't tense with her unspoken fear and his condescending glare. It was almost comfortable. Almost.

This threw Sansa back into that other morning in the godswood. Joffrey had looked strangely vulnerable then, and she had felt for him. She knew that look that had haunted his eyes, that lost, melancholy gaze she had at times, when she didn't know what to do and when she was at war with herself. It had made her wonder if maybe there was something behind his cruelty. All the men she had known to be evil had always had a past, a reason, a story that pushed them towards dark souls and bloody hands, but she couldn't fathom a demon for Joffrey; he had grown up in this wonderful castle, been loved by his mother and father, had received the very best of everything, and had always known that someday, that warped throne would be his. What horror could possibly lay behind that?

Sansa shook the cobwebs from her mind and focused on the present, on Joffrey's arm, and on her surroundings. With a start, it dawned on her that he was steering them towards the godswood. _It always comes back to the roots. _

She voiced her confusion. "The godswood, You Grace? I didn't know you kept to the old gods."

He looked at her, his expression guarded. "I don't. But it's peaceful there, and the gods know I could use some peace after hearing those lords yap at me for hours on end like angry hens."

That wrung a smile out of Sansa, a simper that made her blush a little. Had she just smiled at Joffrey's jokes? Next, she'd be Queen of Dorne. Ha. Wouldn't that be funny?

"It's understandable," she chimed in, her voice steady. This was so… unusual. Sansa was a little unhinged to be chatting with Joffrey. Better enjoy it before they started bickering again. And threatening each other. Not that her threats were grounded, seeing as she had no way of buying a man without money, and she wasn't influential enough to cause any serious damage through someone else.

She was spared having to say something else by the appearance of the door to the godswood. Suspiciously chivalrous, Joffrey opened it for her and only went in once she had. Joffrey might be a cruel, tyrannic, evil being, but he knew his manners.

Side by side, they walked around the godswood, and Sansa felt a pang of homesickness, as she always did when she came back here.

Breaking the heavy silence that rested between them, Joffrey spoke. "You look beautiful today, by the way." He said it simply, not with the usual calculated gaze he used when he "complimented" her, but truthfully. Sansa found herself blushing again. Gods-damn. It was aggravating how that boy used his face, and how much you wanted to believe him sometimes, even when you'd seen what was in side. Sansa had the bruises to show it, and even a tiny scar on her collarbone, only visible if you looked for it.

She breathed in the scent of the pines and the sharp tang of weirwood sap, using it to anchor herself. She had no idea what was going on, why Joffrey was being civil. Maybe he was just taking her someplace hidden so he could beat her himself for showing some skin, or some weird fault he would accuse her of.

"Thank you," was all she said.

They walked in silence for a while more. The godswood here wasn't half as big as the one in Winterfell, but it was still large, with plenty of ground to cover.

"Does it have a name?" she asked.

He arched an eyebrow "Does what have a name?"

"Your sword."

"No, actually. Haven't been able to fathom one that could give it justice," he told her, his voice becoming thoughtful. What _was_ she doing here? Alone, with Joffrey? Was she mad? The old, habitual panic began returning, and she quickly shoved it back down. Sansa was not returning back to that. Not in front of him, not when by herself, not ever. He could believe all he wanted about what she thought of him, but her days of fearing him were over. Gods, she was to marry him someday. Being afraid of him wouldn't do. Disliking him on the other hand…

"Justice," she said, tasting the word. How ironic to hear that coming from the mouth of the most unjust man in the land.

"Yes. This blade has a history, no one knows how to craft swords of Valyrian steel from scratch. I might have had it altered, but it's the same steel that was held all these years ago by other hands. I'd like to not forget that." He looked at her, and although he still had that ineffable Joffrey-ness that Sansa hated, there was something earnest, uncomplicated, wishing to merely make conversation about him. She went along with it, not in the mood for a fight. It had been such a good day so far, she wasn't going to spoil it by antagonizing him unless he started first. Then there was no promise she would censor her thoughts as she had before.

"How about you name it _Vaelor_?" she proposed, liking the way it sounded.

"The High Valyrian for Justice," he concluded after thinking for a while, probably trying to recall what _Vaelor _meant. "It certainly has a ring to it."

"And it will give the weapon the value it deserves. By naming it justice, you will give it a new history. A new song to be sung for a thousand years about the prowess of this blade."

Joffrey pulled it out, and it hung in his hands between them. His eyes were raking the length of the sword, thoughtful.

Almost unconsciously, Sansa put her hand on the cool steel, and delicately ran her fingers on the dark ripples. She thought she heard Joffrey's breath hitch. They were awfully close, she realized, and although once she would have shied away from the proximity, she wasn't bothered by it.

Sansa looked up, only to find Joffrey staring at her. She didn't let go of his eyes. She had his attention now.

"Name it _Vaelor_. Justice. You told me once you'd chosen this sword so that you could be a better King. _Be one_. Name it _Vaelor_ so that you feel the weight of your actions with this blade. So that you deal out every death fairly, justly. So that you don't kill when it's unwarranted, or when an innocent life is between your hands. We are mere humans, and it is for the gods, old and new, to decide when a life must end. We are nothing but the instruments they use to make it come to pass. And it would be wise for you to remember that, king or not." She looked back down at her hand on the blade, and chuckled a little breathlessly. "I'm sorry Your Grace, it was out of place on my part to say that," she said bashfully, feeling her cheeks flush again.

"It was out of place," he began, and Sansa could already feel a slap in the near future. Why was she standing this close to him? Stupid. "But I didn't really mind it Sansa."

Surprise hit her like a wall. Not only had he accepted her little speech, he had used her name. He rarely did that. It sounded rich on his voice. _What the hell? Get yourself together. _

"_Vaelor _it is then," he declared, his voice hushed, There was nothing but the two of them and the blur of green around them. She hadn't stood this close too Joffrey since the days where she had been nothing but a little girl madly in love with her golden prince. It was maddening, but she couldn't bring herself to pull away and put the proper amount of distance between them. He also seemed to be in some sort of trance, and she couldn't help but marvel at whatever was passing between the two of them. How could they go from glares and lethal threats to this proximity, this comfortable silence?

"Thank you," he said, and one look at his face told here was being sincere. She rapidly averted her eyes. Without moving an inch away from her, Joffrey sheathed _Vaelor_, and leaned in closer to Sansa. She almost cried out in surprise when she felt his hand, a featherlight touch to her bare skin, on the small of her back. He put his lips to her ear and whispered, his voice deep and husky, "I _really _like that dress. It suits you marvelously, if I say so myself."

Sansa stayed still, and didn't move so much as a fraction of an inch. Joffrey pulled back, looked at her once more and left, his footfalls almost quiet against the moss and earth on the ground.

She stared at the spot in which he disappeared for a long time after he was gone, lost in thought. Sansa came to one conclusion.

Robb had better hurry up with getting her out of here.

Because she could swear that gaping hole inside her had just gotten a little smaller.

* * *

><p><strong>Eheheheh, things are getting a little steamy between Joff and Sansaaaaa! Hope you liked it, had lots of fun writing this one. <strong>

**Also, I don't want to be an attention seeking whale but please do leave reviews, they motivate me to write and quite frankly make my day. Your unconditional support is the best! And as usual, follow and fav :) **

**Hope y'all have happy holidays!**

**–Estella xx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys! First of all, happy new years! Hope you had wonderful holidays! As usual, I must apologize for the terribly long update, I really suck. Boo me! Anyways, I'll just leave you with the story, you guys must be pretty impatient. Please read the A/N at the bottom, so that I can explain some stuff about the story and how it's going to be from now on. Enjoy :)**

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><p><em><span>Chapter 6 <span>_

Of all the things that should have bothered him about his most recent encounter with Sansa–and, oh, there were so many, from the foolish brush of his fingers against the exposed skin of her back, to the way he hadn't so much as been rude or condescending toward her, or all the words he had let her speak so freely– the one thing that struck him as odd was that she had _believed_ him. When he had told her the 'story' behind his choice of a blade, she had believed him. He had seen it in her eyes as she ran her fingers the length of the sword, gently stroking the rippled metal whilst staring at him with the intensity of the sun. She had believed that he had wanted to be a better king. Whether or not she thought he was doing a good job at it wasn't consequential, not when a small part of her believed he was trying to be better. Not when there was one soul in this thrice damned kingdom who thought there might be hope.

What a fickle, treacherous, powerful thing hope was.

He'd nurtured it as a child–that unfailing hope that he might one day be the great man his mother wanted to see, the strong, the imposing leader his father had imagined, meeting the standards expected of the progeny of two of the greatest Houses in Westeros– but it had died relatively quickly when he had started questioning things. It had shriveled when he had learned the truth. And when his hope had deserted him, he had truly realized how devastating an emotion it was. When there was nothing left, there was hope. No one could take it away from you except yourself. Hope was unfailing, unstoppable, unless you said otherwise. You couldn't be broken if you still had hope. Nothing would be too hard, to painful, if you had hope. Hope could get you through anything. That's how Joffrey had always known whether or not a person was dangerous: if they were devoid of hope.

A man devoid of hope knew no boundaries whatsoever. What did you have to lose when you didn't have hope? Absolutely nothing. And someone who had nothing to lose would stop at no means to obtain what they wanted, whereas a man with a hope–however small– had a breaking point, a point where they would leave everything behind in order to keep that precious hope alive, whether it was a hope for themselves, for their loved ones, for the future.

So yes, the one thing that kept his mind whirling was this idea that Sansa had a hope for him. Oh, maybe he was deluding himself into thinking that she had it, but there was definitely something. He had seen it. Right there, lost in those pools she had for eyes had been hope. He hadn't known whether it was for himself, but it had torn at whatever he had for a heart.

Because that crooked, vile heart of his had been developing some sort of hope too.

The minute he had heard her speaking of better rulers and justice, he had wanted to believe it was possible. He had wanted to know that there might be a future where he was a just, lawful, _good_ king. A future in which he the only feeling he ever got came from death, or pain, or breaking someone. A future in which he might one day deserve the respect he was afforded.

_A future in which I might ever deserve her. _

The thought came unheralded, and blossomed in his mind, a spark of light in the dark expanse of despair, of hate, of anger of everything ugly and loathsome that composed his being. He stared into nothingness, horrified that he was capable of conjuring such a despicable thing in his head. _Deserve _her? He didn't need to deserve anything, did he? He was King, he could have whatever he pleased regardless of whether or not he had earned it.

Yet some small part of him kept nagging, probing, disturbing that thought, and instilled in him the absolute certainty that, although he didn't need to deserve anything, he'd like to. That some day, he'd like to be able to look at whomever he married, at his realm, at his people, and know he had deserved his love, his respect, his power. That it wasn't granted to him just because that was law and the law must be obeyed, but because other sincerely believed he was worthy of it all.

What a lovely fantasy.

He dismissed his musings as foolish, but kept them locked in an easily reached part of his mind, so that he might reflect on them later. Regardless of all his talk of being worthy, of deserving everything he had, one thing that Sansa had said stuck with him. It was the one thing he knew–or at least, he could try– to do. He could be a better king. Not necessarily a good one, no, but a better one. He could put a little effort in it. What's the worse that could happen? He could give up and go back to that miserable place that had been his home for so long, a place where he could bully everyone he wanted to, where he could spill as much blood as he pleased, and where he could be the petty tyrant he adored playing.

And hell, maybe he could be a little kinder to her. Earn her friendship at least. She'd shown him countless times there was more to her than she let on. And she did look so lonely. He could at least get her back in the favor of some of the ladies in court. Or maybe he could simply try to be there for her when all he'd done before was punish her. Maybe.

With that in mind, he made his way to the first Small Council meeting he had been to in eons.

* * *

><p>Sansa spent quite some time pacing in the godswood, cursing every god out there, every part of her, and anything that could be cursed time and time again, a rather pitiful necklace strung with pathetic curses that sounded forced on her innocent tongue.<p>

Why on earth had she let herself stand so close to Joffrey? How had she allowed herself to speak so freely, to stand so close to an _unsheathed_ blade in front of _him_? She must have had a death wish.

But then again, it had felt right. She hadn't realized it in the moment, but standing near him, speaking in soft tones, their breath intermingling, the lovely scent of boy that clung to him gently tickling her nostrils, had felt like to most natural thing on earth. Maybe some small residue of that crush she'd had on him for so long was still there, despite the kicks, the screaming, the crying, the shame, the revulsion he represented now. She shuddered.

It had been another Joffrey she had seen just then, not the demonic, sadist nightmare that had been her bane for the past months. He had been earnest, gentle, _intimate_ almost. He had listened to her, conversed with her sensibly, and been the perfect gentleman. She supposed that whenever he behaved like that, she could let herself be civil, kind even. As long as she kept a clear head, what was the harm in all of this? As long as some part of her remembered exactly who he was deep down, what was wrong with indulging in his company? She was so lonely anyways, seeing as no one wanted to be seen in her presence of more than a few minutes because of her blood, because of her engagement to the King, because she looked like a meek puppet devoid of wit.

After this encounter, the hope, bright and pure, that had begun to flourish for her, the hope that her brother would soon come, the hope that she could get herself through this madness, that she could rise from the ashes, had grown a little more to encompass her secret hope that maybe Joffrey would heed her words. Maybe he would try to be the king he wanted to be.

It dawned on Sansa then that if the King was a better person, a just, kind, good, firm ruler, things would have been so much more different. Her father probably wouldn't have gone to desperate lengths to remove him from the throne, and this damn war would have never started. Hell, he would have been good to her, and she might be happily married, queen of the Seven Kingdoms with the most powerful man in the land at her side, to get her through everything as knights helped their ladies in the tales.

What _had _her father been so desperate to achieve though?

It pricked at Sansa's curiosity. Ned Stark had always been a man of honor. Her father would never do anything unless it was the right thing to do, unless it was justified. Yet he had gone and gotten himself killed. He had _known_ he was putting his family's life in jeopardy yet he had done it. Sansa couldn't help but feel a twinge of anger at the idea of her father caring for honor more than his own children. She knew she had played her part in letting hell loose on the Starks by going to the queen, but it would have never gotten this bad if it hadn't been for him. For his gods-damned honor.

Sansa really wanted to know what had pushed him to do this now. What truth could be so powerful that you had to reveal it at all costs? She didn't know, but the question was there now. It was like when you told someone not to think of something; what was the first thing they did? Think of that very thing. The idea had taken root, and as much as she wanted to shake it off, it stuck.

Oh, she'd get into so much trouble for wanting this answer. She knew it. But she really couldn't help herself. Which is why as she paced endlessly around the godswood, she kept thinking of how to get it.

After a good half an hour, Sansa decided she needed money. Information had a price, and she would need to buy it. She couldn't–and wouldn't– torture it out of someone, and she wasn't powerful enough to have it by asking around. She needed to bribe someone. Surely one of Varys' informers would relent something to her. They _had_ to.

But where would she get the damned money? That was another matter entirely.

With a sigh, she set out of the godswood. She was tired, hungry, and her head hurt from thinking so much. It had been a long day, and far to stressful for her. With a pang of nostalgia, she remembered the hot pools at Winterfell, with water so warm it soothed sore muscles away and left Sansa with the feeling that she could fly. She'd give anything to sink in them once more, to plunge her head underwater and never leave again, only fly, fly, fly.

That reminded her of a quote from a poem she'd once read as a little girl, one she'd never truly grasped until now. "I've been having this dream that we could fly, maybe if we never wake up we could see the sky." That would be lovely, in all honesty. She was wary to the bone of everything in this bloody castle, of the people, of her confusing fiancé, of her situation, of the strangeness and unfamiliarity of the place. It was too much for a girl of fifteen to bear on her shoulders alone. Sansa felt so lonely she was ready to call Arya her best friend and have a sleepover in her ridiculously large bed with her little sister, giggling about nonsensical things and remembering the sweet summer days of her childhood.

When she arrived in her chambers, she got out of her new dress, which, despite being gorgeous, was beginning to feel uncomfortable in the sense that she felt overdressed, and simply threw on a black robe over her undergarments, settling before the fire with the last book in her tiny library, one she had yet to finish due to the stress of the past few days.

It felt amazing to open the volume again and loose herself in the beautifully illuminated pages, reading about how a princess from a distant land single handedly raised an army, defeated the usurper who had stolen her throne, and found her greatest ally–and husband– in a warrior lord of the land. It was a bittersweet tale, filled with loss and sorrow, with hardships and obstacles, yet sprinkled with the odd moment of happiness that made Sansa's heart swoon. She drank in the words like it was all she had left, because at times, it felt like that. When everything was confusing, terrifying, their were still books and their unfailing escape. To think it had taken this horrifying experience for her to read more, Sansa chuckled to herself.

If only every day could be like this. Nice gowns, a lovely–if nerve wracking– walks with her betrothed, and gentle afternoon spent by the fire in company of a good story, nothing to worry about but what she should drink with her read. Oh, how wonderful that would be.

But by now, Sansa had been in King's Landing long enough to know that nothing was that good. Ever. It was only in the stories that people finally obtained their lifetime of peace and happiness.

"Lady Stark"

She was interrupted from her musings once more by the sound of her maid. Because of the queen's insistence that her maids be changed every fortnight, Sansa had trouble getting used to their individual behaviors and recognizing their presence, much to her annoyance. She looked up from the fireplace to see the girl holding an envelope for her.

"From His Grace," she said, handing the paper to her. "He expects me to return with your reply."

Sansa arched an eyebrow, before opening the envelope and pulling out a small, hastily ripped piece of parchment. It read: _If you would please grace Tommen, Myrcella and I with your presence at supper tonight, we'd be most happy to have you with us. –Joffrey Baratheon. _

Sansa couldn't help but notice the handwriting seemed a little uneven around Joffrey's name. But that wasn't what was pressing at the front of her mind. He had _asked_ her to supper. _Politely_. Implying that she could _decline_. Decidedly, what was it with that boy today? Everything in her screamed at Sansa to stop. To make up some excuse and stay in the relative safety of her rooms. To stay as far away from him as she could. Wasn't it the best thing she could do anyways?

Yet he had _asked_. No summons, but an invitation. And there had been that entire episode in the forest earlier today, a moment she was eager to forget– yet unable to. Perhaps this was his way of apologizing for the cruelty he'd shown her these past months. Perhaps he just wanted to ridicule her in front of the prince and princess. She didn't know.

But she wanted to.

"Give me a moment," she told the maid as she got up, and walked to her solar. She took a piece of parchment from the block on her desk, found a pen, and jotted down: _I'd be delighted to join you and the Prince and Princess for supper. I suppose I'll see you this evening. Thank you for the invitation. –Sansa Stark._

Was it informal? Was she being awkward. She winced before rolling her eyes, chiding herself for being so stupid. She was simply accepting his invitation, nothing more. It didn't matter what the paper said. She slipped the paper in the envelope, and handed back to the girl who still stood waiting for her near the fireplace.

She thanked the maid and dismissed her, before collapsing back in her chair with a very unladylike groan. She could not possibly be serious! Supper? With the _King?_ Things were bound to go awry. Yet, wasn't this was normal couples did? Have supper together, stroll around the grounds, send each other hastily written notes through the staff? Of course, normal by no means applied to her relationship with Joffrey, if you could even call it that.

_It's just supper,_ she reminded herself, firmly shaking her head to dispel any other doubts the could have. _And anyways, you have a promise to keep Sansa. You have a duty. _

She resigned herself to her fate, and got up, pulling the pins out of her hair, and letting it tumble down her back, loose and wavy from being braided all day. She stood before her wardrobe before donning a simple, plum colored dress, clasped at the waist by two golden suns, not unlike what women wore over the Narrow Sea. The sleeves were loose and nearly reached the ground, and the hem where the two pieces of cloth were joined by the clasps was embroidered with a pattern of stars and suns.

Sansa brushed her hair, letting it down, before applying one of the scents she'd brought from Winterfell, sweet and familiar.

When she was satisfied with her appearance, Sansa returned to her armchair and resumed her lecture, calmly flicking through the pages, and even sobbing a little when the book ended. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and saw it was time for her to go.

She opened her door to find the Hound waiting for her, and after a silent greeting, they both set out.

_But to what?_

* * *

><p>Joffrey rubbed his temple with two fingers, his eyes rapidly flying over the parchment, reading yet another set of facts and figures. When he'd first arrived to the meeting, their had been a great deal of shocked looks and whispers, but Joffrey quickly made it clear that he was here for business, not to be gawked at by his advisors.<p>

He almost wished he hadn't decided to come.

The kingdom was in a far more dire state then he had ever imagined. The crown was in debt of millions of gold dragons, the reports concerning life outside the capital were concerning, and, of course, the bloody war was going _very_ badly for them.

The conversation went in circles, going nowhere, and his patience was beginning to wear thin. Whilst Littlefinger and Varys argued over the interest of raising a certain tax, Joffrey suppressed the need to groan and stretch vigorously. He felt stiff from sitting for so damn long. _I have to try. _He lifted his chin and continued to listen to the debate, trying to decide what was best for his country. He truly didn't know what to do. It was all messed up, it was all going wrong, it was not what he had thought being a king would be. Sure, walking into this room he had a certain idea of just how bad things were, but he hadn't imagined this, this state of deterioration that only peace would begin to mend. He saw it now, that this war was tearing this kingdom apart, and that only its end would bring prosperity to the land. Yet he said nothing of it, knowing full well now was not the time.

That was one thing he found himself surprisingly good at; knowing when to speak and when to let others speak in turn. He had always put himself forward, rarely pausing to listen, but he found that lending an open ear was incredibly useful. He'd done it with Sansa that morning, and he was doing it now, drinking in their words, weighing out the options, and not rushing anything. He thought the saw his mother looking a little surprised at his demeanor, her eyebrow slightly raised as her eyes flicked from her son to the quarreling men.

Joffrey also found himself thinking of numerous ways to ease the chaos that was ravaging his realm, going as far as suggesting a few of them to the Small Council, who regarded him with great admiration when he proposed them. It wasn't going all that bad. But the little good that went on in that room was not enough to balance the hell hole the realm was in. Not even close.

A few minutes later, the maid Joffrey had sent to invite Sansa for supper returned, and he smiled a little when he saw she had accepted his offer. He hadn't been expecting her too, but he was pleased to know she had. Two hours or so after the meeting began, he'd found himself exasperated, and thought it would be nice to spend some time with her. It had felt so right in the woods, standing near her, his hand on her back, his face so close he could fully grasp the beauty of her eyes, and he couldn't help but know, somehow, that that precious time later on would help him unwind.

He sounded like a lovestruck puppy.

His gut instinct was to shake it off and ignore all feeling towards her, but not today. He wanted to feel this, this tinge of happiness at the thought of her smile, one he had seen so rarely of late.

Joffrey found himself thinking of Sansa as a flower. When he'd first met her, this girl who was meant to be his wife, she was something like a little daisy, girlish in its beauty and easily withered. With his sharpness, his horrors, his inner monster, he'd beaten at the flower, slowly tearing every petal off until there was nothing left but a tiny stem barely jutting out of the ground. And now, it was as if she'd grown anew, one of those beautiful Winter Roses you could find in the North, said to have steel thorns and jagged petals, yet whose smell was ensnaring and whose glory was ethereal.

Somehow, despite him, she'd found something to take root upon; something solid, unbreakable, and utterly _hers_. He admired her for that. She had nothing. He'd taken it all away, and it saddened him to admit it, broken her to pieces, and she'd mended herself. Slowly, she was putting herself back together, and the new image was so much stronger, so much less of a girl and so much more of a wolf. He was fascinated by her strength, because he recognized it. It was the same one he'd found when he decided to come to this meeting.

_When I decided to try and be a king. _

He'd been so lost in thought he hadn't realized Littlefinger was speaking to him. "Your Grace, what do you say then? Shall we raise the tax?"

He pondered on it a moment.

"Fine. Raise it as much as you need. Just eliminate whatever useless taxes we have going around," he instructed, barely looking up from his paper.

"My King, we do need every penny we can get, no matter what title we give the tax," interjected Varys' dulcet voice, making Joffrey want to gag. His voice was _slithering_, like honey trying to cover a disgusting creature and make it look sweet. Well, who was _he_ to speak of disgusting creatures?

"I agree with you, Lord Varys, but so do my subjects. The Starks may be mistaken in many things, but they are right in one: winter is coming. These people will need everything they can to get through the winter. It promises to be a rather harsh one," he said, simply, and firmly, daring the eunuch to disagree with him again.

"How generous of you, Your Grace," he uttered with one of his sickeningly sweet smiles, and all Joffrey did was smile back, feral, looking like the mighty lion he was meant to be.

"Let's move on to the next matter, shall we?" said Cersei, breaking the tense silence that had settled between them.

The meeting dragged on, many other things were discussed to no end, and Joffrey nearly found himself falling asleep. _Gods_, it was tiring to be a king. No wonder his father had drank and whored his way through his reign. Who in their right mind would want this?

Every minute made him long for supper a little more, where he would be able to listen to Myrcella and Tommen's childish delights, and maybe enjoy a little more of Sansa's lovely smile.

But for the meantime, he was stuck here, and although he could have gotten up and left at any moment, he stayed, and focused on the present matter, thinking of this evening as a reward well deserved if he did his best here.

Oh, and he was_ stellar._

At last, the council dispersed, and he found himself free. He got up with a sigh, straightened his doublet, and rolled his shoulder, the bones popping satisfyingly.

A hand gently grasped his arm, turning him face to face with is mother. She gave him her approximation of a warm smile and beamed proudly at him, her face illuminated golden by the setting sun slanting through the windows. "You did well Joffrey, I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, mother," he replied tersely.

"Your father would have been so proud, Seven watch over his soul," she continued, adding the second part of the sentence as an afterthought. He felt the pressing need to get away from her, the memory coming back to him, the memory that changed _everything_.

"I'm sorry, I have to go attend to other matters," he said over his shoulder as he left the council room, not looking back, not giving her any time to oppose herself. Not tonight.

It had been to long a day for him to deal with his mother.

Sometimes, he wondered what it must be like to have a normal mother. Cersei loved him to death, that he knew, yet her love was oddly detached, and her idea of motherhood warped beyond belief. She wanted power for herself, for her children, and Joffrey couldn't help but shudder at the thought of the number of bodies buried all over the kingdom for that very cause. It was a grim idea.

He shooed away any other negative things from his mind, not wanting to trouble his brother and sister with his scowl. They were his only true family. He wanted them happy. If he couldn't exactly find it in him to be joyful, the least he could do was pretend for them.

He arrived to the dining room, where he found Myrcella and Tommen giggling adorably as Myrcella toyed with her dolls, making them say absurd things. Tommen himself was using a toy knight to play with her, and it seemed as if they were in the middle of an argument. Joffrey watched them from the threshold before walking in and hugging both of them, engaging in conversation about trivial child's problems, something Joffrey found relatively amusing.

He poured himself a glass of wine and leaned back in his chair, listening lazily to his siblings, and genuinely smiling. _This_ was what it should feel like. Easy, relaxed, and care-free. If only.

Sansa arrived shortly after, and immediately greeted them all before sinking in her chair and chatting away with Myrcella on some girly subject he knew nothing about. Joffrey realized she slipped so easily from role to role, it was like different masks she wore. Then again, he'd forced her into that, hadn't he?

He looked at Tommen who seamed a little meek in his chair. "You alright?"

He nodded. "It's just that my professor said I was useless at sums… But I don't want to be bad at them! I just can't understand."

"It takes practice, you know? I used to be shit at them too." Tommen laughed at his use of a swear word.

"Mother wouldn't like you saying that in front of me," he chided, still laughing.

"Well Mother isn't here. And guess what? I'm king!" he said with false bravado puffing out his chest exaggeratedly, getting another wave of giggles from his little brother. "You know the words anyways. I wouldn't really be protecting you from anything, would I?"

Tommen seemed to ponder on that. "I suppose not."

Joffrey gave him a grin. "Then where's the harm?"

"The harm, is in him repeating them when everyone is around, leading to a rather uncomfortable conversation with your mother," Sansa chimed in, to Joffrey's surprise. He looked at her, took a sip of wine, and swallowed it pensively.

Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad as he thought, this entire time. This entire thing, whatever it was, wasn't doomed as it had been a few weeks ago. Something had shifted.

Maybe it was for the better after all.

* * *

><p>"And what would you know of uttering swear words in public?" he asked Sansa, after a short silence. Sansa felt that little tinge of fear, more habit then anything else bloom in her chest and quickly crushed it under the weight of her determination to not be afraid. To give whatever change of heart Joffrey had had a chance. Even the ugliest monster deserves a second go.<p>

"My little sister _is_ Arya Stark after all," she said, putting on a mischievous little smile. "I know a lot of swearing in public when you really shouldn't be."

"Really?" he arched an eyebrow, cocking his head slightly. He seemed so at ease like this, with his siblings, leaning back in his chair as if this were what he was meant to do. She'd watched him talk to Tommen, oddly protective, unlike any side of Joffrey she had ever seen.

"Oh, you have no idea," she said, laughing a little. She remembered with a fond smile the feasts where Arya had slipped off her leash and been her usual self, to their Lady Mother's greatest disappointment. Looking back on it, Sansa found it hilarious.

"So what has she done, this notorious sister of yours?" he asked, leaning forward, returning that conspirator's smile. Something slipped between them then, a sort of veil that had been keeping them from speaking normally before, and everything flowed freely. They ate and laughed, shared stories, some of which Sansa was surprised to hear. Myrcella and Tommen looked so happy they might as well have burst with joy, and it was all… enchanting.

There was still a part of Sansa holding back a little, afraid this was but a lie, another game of his meant to leave her more broken then before, but her instincts told her otherwise. And she'd come to trust that gut feeling more then she would have ever done before.

It must have been late, near eleven when they finally finished, and Sansa felt as if she'd had far too much to drink, and so had Joffrey. She was on her third glass, which for her was far too many, and she had no idea how many he'd had. Sansa looked at him, _really, _and noticed he looked weary, inexplicably tired. She asked him about it.

"I went to a Small Council meeting today," he told her. She almost spit her wine, and made him laugh far too much.

When her breathing was back to normal, she shook her head, raising her eyebrows. "Ah."

"Yes, _ah_. Let's say anyone who thinks being king is easy is either lying or not a king." He sighed. Part of Sansa was surprised he was sharing this with her, but she wasn't going to throw this opportunity away.

"And how bad are things?"

"Bad," he whispered, as to not alert his brother and sister who were sitting near the fire. "Worse then ever."

"Good thing you've decided to fix it then."

"I'll try."

"Walk me back to my chambers, will you?" she asked, indicating with her eyes that they could finish this conversation away from Myrcella and Tommen. As he told them to go to sleep or else their Septa would skin them in the morning, Sansa realized the complete lack of formality that she'd had during the entire night. She almost smacked herself for her stupidity, until she remembered it was a two way thing, this newfound closeness. He wasn't exactly being formal either.

Joffrey opened the door for her, and they set out in the dim corridors of the Red Keep, followed by a Kingsguard at a respectable distance.

"It's really bad Sansa. The crown is in a bigger debt then I could have imagined possible, my people are suffering, and I don't know what to do. The war, it's costing us too much but I doubt the Lannisters, or your family will want to stop it." He paused abruptly, realizing he was perhaps giving away too much. She simple nodded to him, implying that she would listen.

She did.

She wished she hadn't.

Saying it was bad sounded like a major understatement. The realm's affairs were a nightmare, and even she who was no experts in politics could tell. For the first time, Joffrey seemed truly at loss, as if this were physically paining him. He was trying, Seven bless him. She couldn't help but feel a little proud of him. Of his drastic change.

"If you don't mind me asking, since when do you care so damn much about what goes on?" Shit. No. She shouldn't have said that. She prepared herself for a slap of some kind, but instead found him thinking, truly thinking about an answer to that.

"Listen Sansa, I know I've never been good to you, or anyone else exactly." She snorted. _He_ was saying _that_? The irony. "But I want to be better. I don't know why, but lately I've just been having this feeling, this need to be the better man. And it's impossible for me to be good, I know that. I've done far too much wrong in my lifetime, short as it is, to ever been able to be good. But I want to try." He tried to grasp for words, slowing his pace as he grappled with his thoughts.

"Just spit it out" she said, placing a friendly hand on his arm. "Easiest way to do it. You can always regret it later."

He chuckled a little.

"I just want to try and fix things for us too." She arched an eyebrow and her eyes widened uncontrollably. "Not necessarily like _that_, but in the sense that I don't want us at each other's throats, you know?" Joffrey shook his head. It was so peculiar to see him like this. Sansa didn't even know what to do. He wanted to fix things. Everything. A month ago, she would have run far, far away from him had he told her that. But now… She didn't know. She wanted to believe him.

So she took a leap of faith and she did.

"I know," she said softly, offering him a small, genuine smile. It wasn't much, but it was something.

He nodded, bashful, before shooting her a grin that was kind of adorable. They walked the rest of the way in a comfortable silence, her arm still hooked around Joffrey's. It was the first time in eons that hadn't felt disgusting.

He left her at her door, and after a brief goodbye, Sansa just collapsed on the small couch in her solar and looked at the stars through the window.

There was hope.

* * *

><p>As Joffrey walked back to his room, he felt like punching a wall and hugging trees at the same time. It had been hard to get those words out in front of her, knowing full well how much pain he'd caused her, and how much he'd taken away from her life.<p>

Yet she'd accepted to try. To try alongside him. And that was more then he could ever hope for.

Why had he ever felt the need to mistreat such a wonderful person? Throughout the night, he'd been amazed to hear her say certain things, fascinated by her intelligence and her odd way of viewing the world, as though it was a story and things, people, objects were to be analyzed. He'd loved the way she talked to easily with his brother and sister, and how lovely her laugh sounded, a ray of sunshine through the clouds.

Things were going to be hard. He knew that. But knowing that Sansa would be with him, he was no longer afraid of charging headfirst against whatever armies he must defeat to have his peaceful rule.

* * *

><p><strong>Well this was fun! I enjoyed this one, things are finally getting easier between those two, and it's fun to write fluffly-ish chapters of these two. Do you guys even know what their ship name is? I've heard of Jansa and Soffrey, but I don't know which one is it. Let me know in the reviews maybe?<strong>

**As to my really unfrequent updating, I've decided to update every Sunday (NY resolutions ehehe). This might mean some chapters might be a little shorter (such as this one, which, compared to the last one, is ridiculous), but I want you guys to have some content weekly. It's much easier that way, and it'll help me settle into a routine of sorts, which are good for writing. Unless I have finals or something of the kind, expect Sundays to be Joffrey/Sansa day!**

**Also, if there are any type of scenes you'd like to see, PM me or ask in the reviews, and I might just write it! Especially concerning any political hardships they might face as I know nothing of them and suck at coming up with them, as Westeros is not my world after all. Even little fluffy scenes I can sprinkle in would be kind of awesome! **

**As usual, please follow, favorite, and especially review, as it's super encouraging to me. It really helps! **

**Happy New Year, and good luck with school if, like me, you're returning!**

**Estella xx**


	7. Note: I HAVE FINALS SORRY

Hey guys! Sorry, I keep doing this and feeling super guilty, but i'm gonna have to postpone this for a few more days, Wednesdays at earliest, and if not, the following one. I forgot I had finals to deal with, and the studying is mad. Hope you guys won't mind waiting a little!

To make it up to you, I'll try and incorporate whatever you guys want in the next chapter, even if it just ends up being mega fluffy, it's fun to write! PM me requests or ask me on tumblr (mychemicalbooks). Also, extra mega long one for y'al :P

Thank you *hugs*


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